


One Little Change

by jadztone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bisexual John Watson, Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, Demisexual Sherlock Holmes, Deus Ex Machina, Don't copy to another site, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sherlock Holmes, It's For a Case, Lots of sex in this, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Purple Shirt of Sex, Sharing a Bed, Switching, but not actually a case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-14 09:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 58,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17505788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadztone/pseuds/jadztone
Summary: Our story begins right after John and Sherlock's first meeting with Irene Adler in September. It splits off into an AU that imagines them taking a case where they act as bait to hook a killer targeting closeted gays in secret relationships. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, many things happen that have our boys wondering if maybe they have a chance with each other.  Then Irene fakes her death on Christmas Eve, and things get a lot more complicated - especially since they still have a killer to catch.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a case fic, per se. I really don't give a lot of energy or detail to the case itself except where it drives the plot of furthering the relationship between John and Sherlock. Also, I wasn't keen to get into the mind of a homophobic murderer. I keep details about the contents of the letter and the killer's mindset to an absolute minimum.
> 
> Thanks to Mazz06tea6 for britpicking!!
> 
> It should be noted that I reference http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/ a lot in this fic. It's a fun read if you haven't seen it yet.

 

_Dear Reader,_

_As we all know, Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant investigator and his skills are constantly in high demand.  He cannot take every case that he finds intriguing, owing to time constraints or other considerations.  I shall give you an example of one such case that was brought to Sherlock’s attention shortly after his initial encounter with Irene Adler.  Let us go into the mind of Sherlock Holmes on this blustery October afternoon:_

John Watson was downstairs assisting Mrs. Hudson with some sort of household repair, Sherlock wasn’t really paying attention.  He was engrossed in peering through the microscope at cells bouncing against each other in a way that could mean only one thing – the older sister did it.  His mobile rang, and seeing that it was Lestrade, Sherlock answered it using the speakerphone.

“What could possibly be so important that you called instead of texting?”

“Er, hello to you too, Sherlock.  Listen, I've got a proposition for you and it’s not exactly the sort of thing that can be explained over text.”

“Well then, get on with it.”

He could hear Lestrade clearing his throat.  “There’s been a double murder, and we think there’s the potential that this guy could kill again.  Dimmock and I sort of had the idea that we could use you and John as bait for the killer.”

“That was clear as mud.  How about you start from the beginning.”

“Okay, uh…have you read about the deaths of Landon Pringle and his assistant?”

“You mean the one that was made to look like a murder-suicide, but really both men were murdered and the assistant was his lover?”

“Jesus, how did you…?  No of course you would have figured it out just from reading the bloody paper.  We only knew they were lovers because we found the threatening notes the killer was sending them.  The first one accused Pringle of being in a secret relationship with his assistant, and went on about how it was so disgusting given that he’s the host of a morning show watched by families.  It basically ordered him to stop the relationship or else, and that he was being watched.  The next one was dated a couple months later and the writer said they knew he hadn’t broken it off with the assistant, and gave a number of examples when Pringle was out doing something romantic with his assistant.  That was a month ago, and a new note was left with the bodies saying that they’d been warned.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, tapping his lips with his finger.  “And why do you think he might kill again?”

“Well, after the story broke on Pringle, the Yard got approached by two other gay couples who have also had threatening letters.  They knew Pringle, knew he was getting letters, and didn’t buy the murder-suicide.  In each case, at least one of the couple was a prominent Londoner, in the closet, and so their relationship was a secret.  The notes followed the same MO for them.  In one case, the couple did break up because they were terrified of exposure.  They only ever got one note.  In another case, they’re still together but they were much more cautious.  They did get a second note, and since then the one half of the couple has been in America visiting his mum.”

Sherlock had to admit that he found the case intriguing, but here was the tedious part.  “What you said earlier about using me and John as bait, I assume that means you want us to pretend we’re in a secret relationship and hope the killer targets us?”

“You’ve got to admit you’re perfect for the role.  You’re a prominent Londoner, you’ve been in the newspaper a lot lately, there’s speculation that more’s going on with you and John than you let on.  Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t got a note, yet.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed together in irritation.  “Well, if the killer has stalked us at all, he would have seen John’s endless parade of girlfriends.”

“Possibly.  But one of the men who approached me did have a female friend who’s been pretending to be his girlfriend a long time now.  They have a lot of people convinced they’re madly in love, but the killer knew better.  Anyway, what do you think?  You do a good job of putting on an act for cases, I bet you’d do fine pretending you and John have a thing going.”

Sherlock found the very idea of _pretending_ to be in love with John, when his love was a solid fact, utterly galling.  It was bad enough that he was cursed with this emotion in the first place.  Even worse, to have John pretending to be in love with _him_.  It would be torture.  But he didn’t have to worry about coming up with a reason not to take the case.  There was always the unvarnished truth.  “Your case has features of interest, Lestrade, but there is no way in hell John would ever go along with pretending to be one half of a gay couple.  You see how irritated he gets whenever people assume we’re together.  He’s not about to feed the monster.  And besides, he just started dating some boring teacher.  He’s pretty keen on her and he’s already threatened me not to ruin it for him.”

“I dunno, Sherlock, I think you’re too hard on John.  His masculinity isn’t _that_ fragile.  He just doesn’t like people speculating on his private life.” 

“Thank you for your input, Gerald, but I think I know John a little better than you.  We’re not doing it.  Find someone else to dangle in front of your killer.”

Lestrade blew out a sigh.  “Fine.  It was worth a shot.  Talk to you later.” 

Sherlock pressed the button to disconnect the call, just as John came up the stairs.  He swaggered into the room as he always did when he’d successfully accomplished some feat that he considered to be masculine.  “Mrs. Hudson’s shower head is right as rain.  A nice torrential rain, to be exact.”

Sherlock would normally make some sort of biting reply at this, but found himself smirking instead.  _Sentiment_.

*

_Dear Reader,_

_There was a reason I showed you this heretofore unseen glimpse into a case not taken.  I am privy to an alternate universe where a change, just one little change, results in a very different outcome.  I needed to first show you what really happened, so you’d understand how events played out differently._

_The one little change is this:  John took the toolbox downstairs, but the specific tool he needed to fix the shower head was missing.  He thought that he probably left it under the kitchen sink in 221B.  So, he went back upstairs and entered the kitchen just…about…here:_

As John entered the kitchen, he heard the sound of Greg speaking from Sherlock’s mobile.  It was sat next to the microscope that seemed to be holding more of Sherlock’s concentration than what Greg was saying.  “There’s been a double murder, and we think there’s the potential that this guy could kill again.  Dimmock and I sort of had the idea that we could use you and John as bait for the killer.”

John let out a bark of laughter. “Wait, what?  Did you just say you want to use us as bait?”

Sherlock glanced up from the microscope.  Greg’s voice came from the mobile, “Oh, hullo, John!  I was just about to issue a proposal to Sherlock, but it’s good you’re here since it involves you.”

John was definitely intrigued now.  He sat down at the table.  “Alright, lay it out for us.”

“Okay, uh…have you read about the deaths of Landon Pringle and his assistant?”

Sherlock chimed in.  “You mean the one that was made to look like a murder-suicide, but really both men were murdered, and the assistant was his lover?”

Sherlock gave John a small smirk as Greg stuttered, “Jesus, how did you…?  No of course you would have figured it out just from reading the bloody paper.  We only knew they were lovers because we found the threatening notes the killer was sending them.  The first one accused Pringle of being in a secret relationship with his assistant, and went on about how it was so disgusting given that he’s the host of a morning show watched by families.  It basically ordered him to stop the relationship or else, and that he was being watched.  The next one was dated a couple months later and the writer said they knew he hadn’t broken it off with the assistant, and gave a number of examples when Pringle was out doing something romantic with his assistant.  That was a month ago, and a new note was left with the bodies saying that they’d been warned.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, tapping his lips with his finger.  “And why do you think he might kill again?”

“Well, after the story broke on Pringle, the Yard got approached by two other gay couples who also got letters.  They knew Pringle, knew he was getting letters, and didn’t buy the murder-suicide.  In each case, at least one of the couple was a prominent Londoner, in the closet, and so their relationship was a secret.  The notes followed the same MO for them.  In one case, they did break up because they were terrified of exposure.  They only ever got one note.  In the other case, they’re still together but they were much more cautious.  They did get a second note, and since then the one half of the couple has been in America visiting his mum.”

John was starting to get a sneaking suspicion what the whole ‘bait’ thing was about.  Sherlock clearly had the same idea.  With a grim expression he said, “What you said earlier about using me and John as bait, I assume that means you want us to pretend we’re in a secret relationship and hope the killer targets us?”

“You’ve got to admit you’re perfect for the role.  You’re a prominent Londoner, you’ve been in the newspaper a lot lately, there’s speculation that more’s going on with you and John than you let on.  Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t got a note, yet.”  John folded his arms and huffed.

Sherlock’s lips pressed together, his expression mirroring John’s own irritation.  “Well, if the killer has stalked us at all, he would have seen John’s endless parade of girlfriends.”  John knew that was a dig.  For whatever reason, Sherlock hated his girlfriends.  Probably because he considered romance to be tedious and somehow expected John to be above such things.  It always filled John with frustration for a couple of reasons.  One, John found absolutely nothing wrong with wanting love, and resented the idea that he was being thought less of by his best friend for it.  Second, there were times when John wished desperately that Sherlock was open to love – more specifically open to loving him.

Greg went on, “Possibly.  But one of the men who approached me did have a female friend who’s been pretending to be his girlfriend a long time now.  They have a lot of people convinced they’re madly in love, but the killer knew better.  Anyway, what do you think?  You do a good job of putting on an act for cases, I bet you’d do fine pretending you and John have a thing going.”

John snorted out a laugh, still caught up in his bitterness.  “Are you serious?  I mean, Sherlock is good at tricking people into thinking he’s a normal person like they are, but faking a romantic relationship?  For a sustained period of time?  Ha!”

John was confused to see what looked like hurt spark in Sherlock’s eyes, but it was gone in a flash, to be replaced by the spark of retaliation.  “I am perfectly capable of pretending to be in a relationship, John.  I’ve had numerous opportunities to observe them in my life, especially in the past year.  No, _you’re_ the reason why Garrett’s proposal is absurd.  There’s no way you could pull it off.”

John’s jaw dropped. “You’re mad!  As you have been so quick to point out, I’m the one who has extensive experience,” Sherlock snorted in derision, “with romantic relationships.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “With women, yes.  This is a _gay_ relationship, John.  You are repressively straight.  Not even James Bond with a martini in one hand and a gun in the other could seduce your pants off.  You’d be offering him a pint as you turn on the rugby match.”  John thought he heard Greg snicker over the mobile.

For someone as brilliant as Sherlock was, he could be remarkably thick.  He’d never been able to deduce that John was bisexual.  John wasn’t about to enlighten him if he was going to be this insulting about his sexuality.  “A relationship is a relationship, and whether it’s a man or a woman is irrelevant considering that it’s fake.  It’s not like I’m going to actually have to sleep with you.  What exactly will this entail, Greg?  Making eyes at each other during press conferences?  Dinners out where we not so secretly hold hands?  Piece of cake.”  Not really, though, thought John uneasily.  What if Sherlock deduced that it wasn’t really pretending for John?

Greg responded, “Uh, yeah, that sort of thing.  Maybe mimic some of the things in the letters that the killer listed as proof of a relationship.  Like, when the couple were somehow spotted stealing a kiss in an alley.”

John smirked at Sherlock.  “There you go.  I can more than handle kissing.  I’ve got a lot of practice.  Are you capable of kissing me, Sherlock, and pretending that you actually enjoy it?”  John tried to keep his face impassive and dared not dwell on the thought of claiming those gorgeous lips.

Something flickered in Sherlock’s eyes as he raised his chin.  “I was a detective for quite a while before we met, John.  I’ve done my fair share of kissing for a case.  I did well enough that the people I kissed had no idea I was putting on an act. 

John’s eyes widened slightly and felt the hot flare of jealousy pour through him.  Sherlock use those lips to seduce some poor woman…or man?  For a _case_?  He couldn’t bear the idea.  It was blasphemy.  He cleared his throat and attempted a smile that felt more like murder.  “Well, Greg.  Looks like both of us think we’re more than capable of pulling this off.  What do you say, Sherlock?  Shall we take the case?”

Sherlock actually looked taken aback.  John wanted to feel grim satisfaction, but all he felt was grim.  Sherlock adopted a bored look and shrugged one shoulder.    “I suppose.  It sounds like it’s at least a 7.  Maybe an 8 once I see the threatening letters.  We’ll be by in an hour, Grant.”  Sherlock ended the call with a stab of his finger.

John was beginning to feel regret for goading Sherlock into this.  No good could come of shamming romance when he very much wanted it to be real.  Hopefully Sherlock would be too fixated on the case to notice his reactions to things.  He figured he should probably say something, anything, to distract Sherlock from his misgivings, but when he opened his mouth, he realised that Sherlock was no longer sitting in front of his microscope. 

Frowning, John turned and saw that Sherlock had opened up his laptop.  Typical.  “What are you doing?  I thought we were going to Scotland Yard?”

“I want to read the articles about Pringle again, refresh my memory.”

“Oh.  Right.”  John went over to Sherlock’s chair and stooped down to read over his shoulder.  He did this whenever he could because it was a chance to catch a whiff of Sherlock’s hair.  He was very careful to keep his breathing normal and not inhale more deeply than usual.  He loved the scent of it, which was more than just the poncy hair products he used. 

“Look at these comments, John.  Apparently Pringle’s love affair was obvious to others, not just the killer.  And me.” 

John shifted his focus from Sherlock’s curls to the comment section of the article about Pringle’s death.  “Oh yeah.  Looks like a few of the commenters have seen them out and about.  If they really were trying to keep it a secret, they were doing a piss poor job.”

“Indeed.  I think I’ve seen enough for now.  Let’s go look at those letters.”  He slammed the laptop shut, startling John into straightening.  In the next moment Sherlock was out of his chair and darting towards the stairway.

*

Sherlock lifted his arm for a taxi, wondering why in god’s name he had agreed to what would certainly be an unmitigated disaster.  He knew why – he’d been in complete shock that John would even consider pretending to be gay.  John was always so quick to disabuse anyone who even hinted that they thought he was dating Sherlock.  It was probably that he hadn’t liked that Sherlock turned the tables on him and implied that he wasn’t secure in his masculinity. 

When they were settled into the taxi, Sherlock turned to John.  “So what about whatshername?”  John raised his eyebrows questioningly.  Sherlock blew out a sigh.  “The woman you’ve just started dating.”

John looked at him in irritation.  “You mean Jeanette?”

Sherlock smiled wanly.  “Oh yes.  _Jeanette_.”  He said it in the most dishwater way possible.

John pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Yes, Jeanette.  What about her?”

“Don’t you think there will be conflicts with the case?”

John shrugged.  “Greg was saying that one of the guys had a beard, so it’s possible the killer will think Jeanette is mine.”

Sherlock thought of several snide remarks, but restrained himself.  “I was thinking more along the lines of her coming to the same conclusion as the killer.”

John’s brow furrowed.  “Doubtful she’d be that observant.” Sherlock fought a smirk as he wondered if John realised he was saying his girlfriend wasn't very bright.  “But if she does, I suppose I could just fess up that it’s for a case.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow.  “You really think she’d be able to keep that a secret?  Especially if her friends notice too and start to comment that you’re not being a very loyal boyfriend?”  Sherlock kept to himself the deduction that they almost certainly had already decided he wasn’t good enough for her.

John drummed his fingers on the arm rest and stared out the window. “No, you’re right, better not mention the case at all.  Well, if she does start to notice something, I’ll…”  He shrugged, clearly at a loss. 

Sherlock was at a loss himself, because John has now just admitted that Jeanette is untrustworthy as well as being an idiot.  “You could just gaslight her.  Tell her it’s all in her head.”

John narrowed his eyes as if assessing whether Sherlock was serious.  At Sherlock’s smirk, he snorted out a laugh.  “Jesus, I really put myself in a bind, didn’t I?  I guess if she brings it up, I’ll just say that there’s nothing going on between us.  It’s the truth.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  “Okay, but then what if she witnesses more of the same behavior?  You can’t keep denying things.  That really will be gaslighting.”

John threw up his hands.  “Well, what do you suggest?”

Sherlock folded his arms.  “Why are you asking me?  I know nothing about relationships.  Can’t even fake one, according to you.”

John colored and pursed his lips.  “Sherlock.  I was irritated by your snide comment about my girlfriends and I decided to take the piss.  I didn’t know it would escalate.  Although I should have guessed.  When we’re not bringing out the best in each other, we’re bringing out the worst.”

Sherlock had to admit he was right.  They did tend to goad each other a lot.  He let out a breath through his nose.  “Look, if she says something, just tell her as you said – that there’s nothing going on between us.  We have a very unusual relationship.  Your previous girlfriends felt threatened by it and that was how they all ended.  She can either accept that this is what we’re like with each other and trust that it’s not and never will be sexual, or say goodbye.”

John looked down, a tiny frown marring his forehead.  “Yeah, that’s…that’s good.  That’s pretty much the most honest way I can put it without mentioning the case.”  He shook his head.  “Maybe you’re better at this relationship stuff than I gave you credit for.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.  “Don’t be so sure.  Unless you get really lucky and she remains oblivious throughout the case, I think you’re going to lose her.  If you don’t want to risk that, we should turn down the case right now.”

John’s frown deepened and he shook his head.  “No, I’m already invested.  What that killer is doing – terrorizing and murdering gay men – it’s disgusting and vile.  I want this person stopped, and you are the only one who can do it.  I will do whatever I can to help.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to feel heat rising up his neck and into his cheeks, as it always did when John complimented him.  He drank up John’s faith in him. It gave him the fortification he would need to get through this sham.

*

John felt subdued as they walked into NSY.  The talk about Jeanette had thoroughly depressed him.  The only reason he was even with her was because of Sherlock.  One evening the two of them were watching crap telly together, which John always enjoyed because of the stuff Sherlock would shout at the TV.  But then Sherlock’s phone had gone off 5 times in the space of half an hour.  It was the moaning text alert, which meant Irene Adler.  John wasn’t stupid, he knew it was her.  For some reason Sherlock never wanted to discuss it. 

John got really irritated after the fifth text - Sherlock just read it and then put his mobile back down like he only ever did with Irene’s texts.  Sherlock was constantly replying to texts, no matter who it was, even if it was to make some sarcastic remark.  But he never replied to Adler.  John couldn’t figure out whether not responding _meant_ something. 

Feeling like something bitter was crawling out of his skin, John had groused that he was going out, and headed straight for his favourite local.  Jeanette had been there with her friends, and after three pints he was chatting her up.  

That seemed to be how he met most of his girlfriends these days – Sherlock would piss him off and he would go get pissed in a pub and ask someone out.  No wonder he couldn’t keep anyone interested.  He dated out of spite.  Well, maybe once Jeanette cried off – as that seemed inevitable even without the case - he’d take a break from dating altogether. 

Soon they were settled in front of Greg’s desk reading over the threatening letters.  John knew that Sherlock was committing the details to his mind palace, but occasionally he would point out something for John to write down in his notebook.  All things the killer had detailed as proof of the relationship.  Presumably Sherlock was interested in trying some of these. “Wouldn’t it be a bad idea to do all these same things the others did?  Surely the killer would figure out we’re trying to lure him?”

Sherlock shook his head.  “Two things to note, John.  One, it’s entirely unnecessary to come up with unique scenarios because people are the same everywhere, and all entirely predictable.”  He pointed at one of the bullet points (yes, the killer had made bullet points).  “This bit about kissing in alleys?  That’s in three of the letters.  Cozy little restaurants and staring into each other’s eyes – it’s in every single one.  Predictable.  Now on to point two. People are idiots.  Especially murderers.  They’re ruled by their id.”  He picked up the letter and waved it.  “And this one in particular is one of the most idiotic I’ve seen.  I’ve got his whole personality and intelligence level sussed out just from reading this nonsense.  No higher-level reasoning from this guy, he won’t be looking at anything beyond confirmation of his beliefs.  It’s going to be ridiculously easy to fool him.” 

John gave a short nod.  “Right, so what should we start with?”

Sherlock pressed his palms together and tapped his lips.  “Lestrade was right earlier when he said that he was surprised we haven’t got a note yet.  We had to have caught his notice.  Two bachelor flatmates solving crimes together?  And he would have checked out your blog, which is practically a love letter to me.  Based on the pattern of the men he’s targeted so far, I’m quite sure we’re in his sights.”

John clenched his jaw at the ‘love letter’ crack. “Sure that’s not your ego talking?  If we haven’t got a letter, maybe you’re not as prominent as you think.”

Sherlock scowled.  “Or maybe something made him have second thoughts.”  He pulled out his mobile and pressed some buttons.  He narrowed his eyes at the screen, then heaved a sigh and looked heavenward.  “Of course.  I should have known.  It’s obvious we would have got a letter by now if it weren’t for your latest blog entry about the Adler case.”  His tone mocking, he quoted the blog, “And I'm sure it won't be the last time we hear the name Irene Adler. In fact, I'm pretty certain he's getting texts from her. It's funny, in the time I've known him, I've never seen him take the slightest interest in a woman but this one... She's _got to him_.”  He tossed his mobile on the desk in disgust.  “I hope your fanciful notions didn’t just ruin this case for us, John.”

“She did get to you,” John muttered, trying to fight back the flush rising up his neck.  He’d been horridly jealous as he wrote that entry, trying to sound nonchalant, like it didn’t matter to him. 

Greg picked up the mobile and read the entry.  “Oh yeah, I remember this.  But there’s still the bit where you made sure to note that Sherlock was naked in a sheet.  Did you get pictures?” He grinned and winked at John.

John smirked at him, determinedly not thinking about the picture permanently etched in his head of Sherlock’s back, with his alabaster skin and the tantalising glimpse of his arse before he caught the sheet.  “Maybe I should make another blog entry.  I’ve got one or two cases I haven’t written up.  I can put some stuff in it that’s more obviously gushing about Sherlock.  He could respond in the comments like he does sometimes, but flirty.”

Greg nodded enthusiastically.  “Yeah, that would work.  What you really need though, is a press conference.  Get yourself in the newspaper, but this time the picture would have you gazing adoringly at each other.”  He held his hands up like he was picturing it, and grinned.

John shrugged.  “Yeah, that would be perfect, but we can’t magically make a case appear that will get the media’s notice.”

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh.  “No, I know of one.  I got an e-mail earlier today that I dismissed _precisely_ because I knew the press would eat it up.  We’re guaranteed to get the front page if I solve it.”

Greg beamed, “Cheers!  This is gonna be fun, eh?  Oh, just so you know, I don’t plan to tell Donovan and Anderson what you’re up to.  I want to watch them have kittens as they think you two are getting it on.”

Sherlock’s lips twisted at the mention of his two least favourite people.  “Charming thought.”  He stood up.  “I think we’ve got enough to be going on for the moment.  I’ve memorised all that,” he tapped the evidence bags, “so now we’ll go back to Baker Street.  John will do a new blog entry and I’ll respond to the client with the press-worthy case.”

*

When they got back to 221B, they both opened their laptops almost simultaneously.  Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as John pulled out his little notebook and began flipping through the pages to find an older case.  Soon they were both typing away when John’s e-mail chimed.  “Oh.  Mike Stamford’s reminding us about his Halloween party.  I can’t believe that’s tomorrow.  Time flies.  Hey, maybe we should go in couples costumes.”

Sherlock screwed up his face.  “ _What_ kind of costumes?”

John looked up from his screen and smiled.  “Couples costumes.  People like to dress up as famous pairs.    Bonnie and Clyde.  Bacon and eggs.”

Sherlock stared at him, appalled.  “You can’t be serious.  How absolutely tedious.  Are people that bored with their lives?”

John gazed at him reproachfully.  “It’s what couples do, Sherlock.  We’re supposed to be fooling a killer into thinking we’re one.”

Sherlock glared at him.  “Don’t tell me that you’re thinking of using the whole ‘it’s what couples do’ thing to rope me into all sorts of ridiculous antics.”

John gave him a considering look.  “Well, I am _now_.”  He started giggling, and Sherlock tried to look stern but he dissolved into giggles himself.  He also tried not to think about how if they were going to do a couple’s costume, he’d prefer pirates.  Most people didn’t know that there were a lot of gay pirates, and some of them even got married.

Sherlock gave himself a mental shake and concentrated on finding the e-mail he’d initially dismissed.  Ah, here it was.  It was from a man, Alex Holder, who worked for the same bank as Wilkes.  He approved a loan to a very socially prominent client who used a family heirloom – a beryl coronet – as collateral.  For some idiotic reason Holder thought the coronet would be safer in his home than in the bank’s vault.  Now the coronet’s been damaged and some of the beryl gems are missing.  Holder’s nephew is in jail, protesting his innocence but refusing to explain why he was found with the coronet in his hands.  The client is threatening to drag Holder’s name through the mud if the missing gems aren’t found.

Yes, this would definitely catch the interest of the press once he solved it, which he absolutely would.  He set about doing some research into the people involved – Holder, his nephew, his client, as well as the history and worth of the coronet (or the individual gems). Once he’d done that, he went over to the sofa and stretched out, closing his eyes as he slipped into his mind palace and contemplated what few details Holder gave in his e-mail.  The tapping of John’s fingers against the keys of his laptop were the last thing he heard for hours.

 

When Sherlock snapped out of his reverie, he noticed that John had gone out.  Checking his mobile, he saw there was a text from 20 minutes ago saying that he was heading out to Boots to get a few things.  Sherlock went over to John’s laptop and saw that he’d finished his new blog entry.  He’d written up the case about the lion’s mane.  Interesting choice.  Sherlock sat down to read it.  John described them going to Sussex to solve the murder of a professor’s assistant, who was killed by some sort of weapon that left horrible gashes on the skin.  It had turned out to be not a murder at all, but a rare and dangerous jellyfish.  Most of the case itself was skimmed over in favour of personal details about their time on the shore.  John kept depicting it like a vacation, using many flowery descriptions about the invigorating sea air and the breeze tousling Sherlock’s hair.  Sherlock felt heat creep up his neck as he read how apparently his eyes, the _same shade of cerulean as the ocean at his back_ , had sparkled as he enthusiastically described the deadly properties of the jellyfish’s sting.  The entire blog entry, start to finish, did an impeccable job of conveying the impression that John was completely gone on him. 

Sherlock was also mortified to read that John even included his jealous reaction when John had interviewed the dead man’s fiancée.  She was a very beautiful woman, and John played his bedside manner to the hilt in comforting her.  Sherlock made a snide remark about letting her grieve for a bit longer than a day before moving in on her.  As they were leaving, John remarked to him that she was just a woman, not a siren, and Sherlock didn’t have to worry about John being lured away from Baker Street to go live by the sea.  At the time, Sherlock had been horribly embarrassed, hoping that John didn’t realise how much his remark hit home regarding Sherlock’s fears of him leaving.  Apparently John was more observant than Sherlock gave him credit for, because all of it was in the blog entry – the description of the fiancée, Sherlock’s jealous lashing out, and John’s reassurance. 

Sherlock slammed the laptop closed.  He could feel his stomach clenching at the perfect domesticity described in the entry, the glimpse of how John would see Sherlock and their life together if they were in a relationship.  It was entirely too tantalising. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two cases mentioned are based off the Adventure of the Beryl Coronet and the Adventure of the Lion's Mane.


	2. Chapter 2

They ended up missing the Halloween party for the coronet case.  They spent the whole afternoon and evening at Holder’s mansion interviewing witnesses and searching the grounds for the missing gemstones.  It was just as well that the case made them miss the party.  John had forgotten that he’d planned to take Jeanette, and was well on his way to convincing Sherlock that it would be easy to get costumes at the last minute, having got Sherlock to confess that he wouldn’t be averse to dressing as a pirate.  If he’d actually blown off Jeanette to take Sherlock to the party, she would have broken up with him for sure. 

She was still pissed off about missing the party, but he’d made it clear when they started dating that stuff like this would happen, so she’d grudgingly accepted it.   She was a little less accepting of his latest blog entry.  She told him all her friends were teasing her about it, asking if she was absolutely sure that her boyfriend was straight.  John couldn’t tell her that was the whole point of the entry.  He lamely said that he was trying out a different writing style.  Of course, by writing style, he’d really meant that he was finally getting a chance to write what he felt about Sherlock without having to censor it like he usually did. 

She also wanted to know exactly what Sherlock meant in one of his comments.  He’d chided John for describing his eyes as being the color of the ocean, saying, “It’s embarrassing, John.  How would you like it if I were to say how the different hues in the grains of sand on the beach reminded me of the strands of your hair?”  It had been the perfect response – pretending to be affronted while also sounding flirtatious.  John had read the comment when he was with Jeanette, and hadn’t been able to restrain himself from running his hand through his hair. When she pointed out that flatmates didn’t usually describe each other that way, he’d laughed uncomfortably and then pretended that he had an appointment.

When he got home, John posted a reply to Sherlock’s comment saying that he would never be embarrassed about such a compliment to his hair when it was so beautifully put and maybe Sherlock should write that way more on his own blog.  Sherlock had replied, “The Science of Deduction is about science and deduction.  Not waxing poetic on your features, no matter how pleasing they are. Romance belongs in your blog, not mine.” 

Bill Murray left a comment asking what Sherlock meant by romance, and did that mean they were really together now.  John said it was referring to his comment on the first case, the romantic adventure.  Not to be deterred, Bill said that wasn’t answering the question.  Normally, John would have outright said there was nothing going on between them.  But since they were meant to be coy, he simply replied that they hadn’t gone out for a pint in a while and it might be good to catch up in person. 

As expected, there was a press conference once Sherlock solved the coronet case.  It had turned out to be Holder’s niece and some thug she’d fallen hard for.  When Sherlock gave his statement, he said love was a vicious motivator, which John knew was also a call back to their first case.  He went on to say that people would do anything for love, and he turned to look at John when he said it.  They had prepared ahead of time what they would say and do, so on cue John gave him a tiny smile and then looked down, biting his lip.  The photographers asked them to pose, a request they usually turned down, but this time they paused a moment in compliance.  John stepped closer to Sherlock than he usually would.  After a few moments, he looked up at Sherlock, lifting his eyebrows as if to say, “Had enough?”  Sherlock gave him a warm smile and nodded. John held his hand up to the press and said that was enough, then pressed his other hand to Sherlock’s back and steered him away from the press and towards the door of 221.  When the reporters shouted out questions about their relationship, as they typically did, John simply shook his head to indicate he wasn’t going to answer, and instead stepped even closer to Sherlock as they went inside the building.

The news programs that evening, after reporting on the case, showed footage of John with his hand on Sherlock’s back and the gentle shake of his head when a reporter shouted, “Mr. Holmes!  Mr. Watson!  What exactly is the nature of your relationship?”  The newspapers the next day were full of pictures of Sherlock looking down at John with a great deal of fondness, while John looked at him like he hung the moon.  John ignored the churning in his gut at seeing this.  He debated whether he should put the picture up on his blog along with the writeup of the case. 

When John went to Jeanette’s flat that evening, she asked him point blank why he didn’t answer the reporter’s question.  He gave her a meaningful look and said he didn’t answer because he was sick of being asked such questions.   Her lips tightened and she went into her kitchen to make tea.  John sighed.  This was it.  He needed to break up with Jeanette.  This was massively unfair to her.  If he was honest with himself, he never should have gone out with her in the first place.

“Jeanette, we need to talk.”  She sat down on the sofa next to him, curling her feet up underneath her.  She waited for him to continue, her expression unhappy.  “Look, this isn’t going to be much comfort, but please know that I’ve never cheated on you with Sherlock.  We’re not having some sort of secret affair.  Not even an emotional affair.  Emotions would have to be reciprocated in such a case, and I can tell you flat out that Sherlock does not have feelings for me.  Not in that way.  Having said that, you haven’t been imagining my feelings for him.  I…I am in love with him.  Have been for some time.”

Jeanette huffed angrily.  “I knew it!  What the hell are you playing at, going out with me when you’re in love with someone else?”

He gripped the arm of the sofa in an attempt to stop the tremor in his hand.  “I’m not playing at anything, Jeanette.  I’ve been getting _on_ with my life, as people do when they have feelings for someone that aren’t returned.  You get out there, you meet other people, _that’s_ what I’ve been doing.  That’s not unreasonable, is it?”

She folded her arms and huffed again, less forcefully.  “Look, I just…I understand you’re trying to get over him.  But think about what this means from my perspective.  You’ve put me in the position of competing with Sherlock Holmes.  And it’s pretty clear so far who’s winning.  I was sort of okay with it when I was competing for just your time, but now it’s your heart as well.  I don’t deserve that.  I deserve someone who wants to be with me and only me.”

John nodded solemnly.  “You’re right, Jeanette.  And I’m sorry.  I thought I could give you that and I was wrong.  I’ll take this as a sign that I should wait awhile before I start dating again.  Try to come up with some other way of getting over these feelings.”

Jeanette raised her eyebrows.  “You should probably move out of that flat.  Get some distance from him.  That’s the only way you’re going to get over him.  I’m not the only one who deserves better, you do too.  You deserve someone who puts you above his work.  Who reciprocates your feelings.  Who makes you warm at night.”  She gave him a meaningful look.  He flushed at this.  She’d asked him once whether Sherlock was asexual.  He hadn’t known the answer to that, so she made the assumption that he was.  Then she’d gone on to say that it was no wonder he didn’t date, possibly implying that no one would want a boyfriend that would never be interested in sex.  He’d been too uncomfortable with the subject of Sherlock’s sexuality to continue the discussion.

As he was heading back to Baker Street, John found himself thinking about Jeanette’s remarks.  What if Sherlock was asexual and that was the real reason why he didn’t date?  John had heard that it could be frustratingly difficult for asexuals to find potential mates who would be willing to give up sex.  Maybe Sherlock decided to forego relationships altogether in favour of The Work.  Him being asexual might explain Mycroft’s remarks at Buckingham Palace, and Sherlock’s behavior towards Irene Adler.  John wondered if…if Sherlock might be amenable to a relationship if he assured him that asexuality wasn’t a deal breaker.  A year ago, it might have been.  But the way John felt about Sherlock…all he cared about, really, was being with Sherlock for as long as Sherlock was content to have him around.

John shook his head and pushed these thoughts aside.  It was all just speculation, having no idea about Sherlock’s preference for _anything_.  And it wouldn’t be fair to Sherlock for John to declare that sex didn’t matter unless he was _really_ , really sure.   John supposed he was going to be testing that theory, because he would not be dating anyone else for the foreseeable future.  Not until he’s either got over his feelings for Sherlock, or his need for romance and sex could no longer be ignored.

*

The next few weeks they continued to keep it low key, not wanting to step up their game until they had got a nasty letter and were sure that they were going to be followed.  They went out on long walks together in Regent’s park, brushing shoulders and occasionally brushing fingers.  These were Sherlock’s favourite moments.  They went out to eat a little more often, and shared each other’s food and smiled at each other.  Pretty much what they already did, but Sherlock felt more free to let his gaze linger longer than he would usually. 

Whenever any potential clients stopped by 221B, they’d play up the domesticity in case it was the killer or a spy.  John would put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and ask if he’d like tea.  Sherlock made sure he was more polite towards John and they refrained from bickering, instead sharing inside jokes and meaningful glances.  Sherlock supposed it helped that he would blush whenever John gave him a flirty grin, but it was certainly annoying to constantly have that reaction.  He supposed he would get used to it eventually, although it was strange to think that he would ever get used to John looking at him in such a manner.

John’s blog entry about the coronet case was even more full of purple prose than the previous one.  There was one passage in particular where John described how Sherlock had knelt down on the floor with his magnifying tool to examine some debris at the spot where the nephew had been found with the mangled coronet.  Except the way John put it was that Sherlock had his arse in the air during his examination.  And although he made sure to say it was the _maid_ checking out the way his arse looked in his “perfectly tailored trousers,” the implication was obvious.  John’s sister had a field day with that in the comment section.  John slyly protested that he was just trying to be humourous, but it didn’t wash.  Sherlock didn’t know whether to admire the genius of putting that little anecdote in there, feel mortified that people had been checking out his arse, or feel aroused by the fact that _John_ had been checking out his arse.  All three were warring for attention in his brain.

 

A month after they began their endeavour, they finally got their first letter.  Mrs. Hudson brought it up, not having any idea of the contents.  “A letter for you, boys!”  She tried to hand it to Sherlock, but he was stretched out on the sofa trying to think.  She took it over to John, and when he accepted it, she clapped her hands in some sort of excitement that Sherlock was already dreading.  “Now Sherlock, John, as you know it’s December first.  This will be your first Christmas in Baker Street, and I am _so_ thrilled.  I have to warn you that I go all out!  Decorations, lots of baking, and we _will_ be having a little get-together here in the flat on Christmas Eve.”

At the same time as Sherlock was murmuring, “Dull,” he was hearing John say, “Cheers!” with a smile in his voice.  Sherlock supposed that meant there was no getting out of it now.  Sherlock vaguely heard her announce she was off to do some shopping, and then her footsteps receded down the stairs.

“ _Sherlock?”_   He heard the note of warning in John’s voice, but it rose slightly at the end as if in question. 

Sherlock waved his hand.  “There’s no need to go into some sort of detailed explanation about how holiday celebrations are things that couples do together.  I’ll do my very best to participate in the festivities and look like a secretly doting boyfriend to the public at large.”

“Yeah, uh, speaking of the whole boyfriend thing…this letter we just got…”

Sherlock sprang off the sofa in an instant.  He snatched the letter out of John’s hand.  He quickly read it through once and breathed, “ _Fantastic_.”  It was just like the others, full of vitriol, admonishments, and threats. 

He grinned at John, the light of the chase in his eyes.  “So, we’ve set the scene and lured him into our little play.  Now we can really start the show.”  He read over the letter again, laughing with delight at the indignation pouring off the page.  “Oh, and he’s gagging for it, too.  Practically daring us to put a toe out of line.  And we’ll absolutely give him what he wants.”    He grinned as he began to plan their next move.

John’s jaw was set as he ground out, “Sherlock, you’re being entirely too gleeful about this.  This guy is sick and he says some pretty awful things in there.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  “It’s precisely because he’s so awful that I’m looking forward to taking him down.  I understand that for his usual victims, this letter would be very traumatizing.  But we’re not actually in a secret relationship that’s just been outed.  And I really don’t care that an idiot like this doesn’t approve of me being gay.  You’re straight, so it shouldn’t bother you at all.”

“I’m not…”  John bit off the rest of his reply. 

Sherlock looked up from the letter, frowning.    “Not what?”

John lifted his chin.  “I don’t have to be in a gay relationship to be disturbed by such threats.  My sister could have easily gotten such a letter.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  “No, it’s more than that.  What was it that got to you?”

John swallowed and averted his eyes.  “I just…I’ve never been the target of this sort of judgment and hate before.  Like when he accuses me of gazing at you with _prurient lust_.  It just makes me angry.”

Sherlock tried to ignore the hollow feeling this gave him.  “Why, because you’re not actually gazing at me in lust?”

John made a cutting gesture.  “No!  I’m angry because he thinks that me looking at you in lust is a dirty, offensive thing to do.  Because we’re two men.  It’s completely fucked up.  If I were staring at a woman with her arse in the air, I’d get a bloody slap on the back.  It makes me so angry, I’m almost afraid of what I’ll do to the guy if we catch him.”

Sherlock felt himself relax.  “Yes, I suppose that would be a shock to the system.  I’ve had years to develop a thick hide against such things.”

John eyed him curiously.  “So, you are…in fact… _gay_?”

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look.  “I thought I made that clear when we first met?  Women not being my area?”

John lifted a finger.  “You said _girlfriends_ weren’t your area, and followed it up by saying you were married to your work.  That only told me you weren’t interested in relationships.  That said nothing about whether you were attracted to women in general or whether you were into casual sex.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “So sorry I wasn’t clear, John.  Maybe you should have had me fill out a questionnaire that first night.”

John barked out a laugh.  “Oi!  Most of us don’t have the ability to read people like you can.”

Sherlock smirked, “It _is_ a rather useful tool.  Poor John, having to rely on asking questions and worry about misinterpreting the most obvious social cues.”

John folded his arms.  “Your _tool_ may be useful, but it’s not foolproof.  You thought Harry was my brother.”

Sherlock waved his hand.  “So, I got one thing wrong.”

John gave him a cagey smile.  “Oh, more than one thing, I’d say.”

Sherlock scoffed.  “Nothing important.”

John’s expression said he begged to differ.  Sherlock’s eyes widened.  What was he hiding?

*

John knew he was being stubborn about admitting to Sherlock that he was bisexual.  But Sherlock’s smug know-it-all attitude grated sometimes.  And it wasn’t like him knowing this information would make a difference.  Sherlock may have admitted his sexual preference was for men, but that preference clearly didn’t include John.  He’d outright rejected him that first night. 

As they took a cab to New Scotland Yard to show Greg the letter, John reflected on the fact that he still didn’t know how Sherlock felt about sex.  Mycroft seemed to think he knew nothing about it and would find it alarming.  But then the two brothers tended to hold onto old impressions from their past.  Sherlock was constantly making jabs about Mycroft being overweight even though he obviously wasn’t.  Maybe Sherlock was a late bloomer, sexually, and Mycroft only remembered the blushing virgin. 

If Sherlock met a man he found attractive, would he ignore it?  Have a one-off?  It was possible this whole time he’s been getting off with people at other places besides Baker Street.  But John had never seen Sherlock ever show interest in anyone on any level except Jim Moriarty and Irene Adler.   Most of that interest was intellectual, but until today he’d thought that in Irene’s case there was something else there.  Apparently not.  It made him wonder even more about her texts.  She seemed like the type to easily suss out someone’s preferences, so was she barking up the wrong tree or merely teasing him?  Or did she know something about Sherlock that he himself didn’t? 

Probably she was just teasing Sherlock, which made John feel loads better about the texts.  He could admit to himself now that each of her texts these past couple of months had kept him on the edge of anticipation, wondering if this was the one that would finally lure Sherlock into her web.

 

When Greg read the letter, he alternated between scowling and biting his lip in amusement.  “What a complete nutter.  He’s really riled up this time.  The two of you did a fantastic job poking this particular bear.  Especially you, John.  You’ve really been selling it in your blog.  Well done, mate.”

John smiled smugly and looked over at Sherlock.  “Ta.”

“I’m curious about something, though.  One of the comments in your last entry claimed to be one of your girlfriend’s mates, and she was having a go at you for stringing her along when it was obvious who you really wanted.  Was that real or did you make that up?”

John winced.  “No, that really was Jeanette’s friend.  We broke up right after that press conference.  She could tell something was going on, and I couldn’t tell her the truth, so…”  He shrugged.

Greg’s brow wrinkled, his gaze sympathetic.  “That’s a bummer, I’m sorry.”

John shook his head.  “We hadn’t been going out that long, so I wasn’t that torn up about it.  At least now I don’t have to get her a Christmas present.”

Sherlock, who seemed to be fighting a smirk, added, “And her idiot friend certainly helped our case with her bleating.  It was noted by the killer in his letter.” 

If John had cared more about the breakup, he might have commented on Sherlock’s insensitivity.  He knew that Sherlock was immensely pleased that Jeanette was out of the picture.  A part of him wished it were because Sherlock was jealous, but John knew it was just so he would be more available for casework.

Greg snickered.  “This letter is a piece of work.  I know I shouldn’t laugh.  The guy _is_ dangerous.  I guess it’s easy not to take it seriously because it’s not real.  It’s just the two of you having him on.  But I suppose if it were me getting this and he was picking apart my relationship with the man I love and making it out to be something…disgusting, I’d be furious.”

John felt a little vindicated that Greg understood his own response to the letter.  Cheered a little, he commented slyly, “The man you love, Greg?  Something you want to tell us, mate?”  John wasn’t serious, of course.  He knew Greg was trying to patch things up with his wife.

Greg turned a dark shade of red and he began fiddling with his pen.  “Yeah right.  You really think if there were some bloke out there that…that made me feel that way, I’d be trying to get Deb to come back to me?”  He attempted a laugh, but failed miserably. 

Realizing he was just made privy to something he shouldn’t, John schooled his features into neutrality and glanced over at Sherlock.  He was staring at Greg, and his expression seemed almost like he was making a deduction that he _really_ didn’t want to make.  Before John could stop him, he said in almost a whisper, “Not if you thought he returned those feelings.”

Greg’s head shot up, his eyes blazing a warning.  He cleared his throat.  “So now that you have your first letter and you know that he’s going to be watching your every move, it’s time to plan what those next moves are going to be.  Any ideas?”

Sherlock smiled wickedly.  “More frequent hand touching, as if we’re dying to hold hands but dare not.  Hungry looks across the dinner table.  We’ll add in some kissing in an alley.  Generally looking like we’re gagging for it.”  John felt himself get warmer and warmer and wondered if he should forego the hot coffee he was drinking.  Jesus, this was going to be difficult.  Sherlock went on, “When John and I visit a sex shop, that’ll trigger a second letter for sure.”

John managed not to crush the flimsy cardboard coffee cup in his hand, but it was a near thing.  “We’re doing _what_?”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow.  “A sex shop.  It was a feature of interest in one of Pringle’s letters.  There’s one a couple of blocks from Baker Street.  You know the one, John.”

John felt himself grow even warmer than he’d already been.  He set the cup down.  “How did you…?”

Sherlock waved his hand.  “I know you’ve been there with at least two of your girlfriends.”

John blew air out his nose.  “Right.  Are you sure this is a good idea to mimic so closely something that one of the other couples did?”

“I told you, John, people are predictable.  Did I not just mention that you yourself have a pattern of visiting sex shops?  It only makes sense that you would take your latest sex partner there as well.”

John took a deep breath and chanced a glance at Greg.  He was back to being red in the face, but this time from stifling his laughter.  John saw his hand inching towards his mobile.  “I swear to god if you even think about filming this...” 

Greg released the bark of laughter he’d been holding in.  “I’m s…sorry!  I can’t help it.  Christmas has come early this year.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Alright, sex shop it is.  Any other ideas you’ve cooked up?”

Sherlock pursed his lips.  “Yes, but I haven’t decided whether to execute them now or wait till after we get a second letter.”

Greg, having recovered from his mirth, gave Sherlock a stern look.  “Whatever it is, I want you to run it by me first.  He’s only killed one couple so far, and it happened to be after his second warning letter, but that doesn’t mean he won’t become enraged enough to attack you sooner.”

Sherlock gave him an affronted look.  “I assure you, Gil, that we will strike the right balance between provoking a second letter and inciting murderous rage.”

Greg glared at him and muttered, “You sure about that? Because you come pretty close to inciting murder on a regular basis.”  John smirked. 

Sherlock stood up.  “You have the letter, so I believe we’re done here.”  He swept out of Greg’s office, barely missing John with the swish of his coat.

*

Sherlock had nerves of steel when it came to most things.  When lives were at stake, he did what needed to be done and he didn’t flinch from it.  But what he was about to propose had him on edge.  John joked about punching him in the face, but he might actually do it this time.  What Sherlock needed to do was approach it as strategically as possible. 

When they were back at Baker Street and John had started the kettle for tea, Sherlock put his hands behind his back and said matter-of-factly, “We need to plan out the next week.  Make sure we behave in a predictable pattern.”

John gave a short nod.  “And what does that entail?”  He brought out two mugs and an assortment of tea.  He let Sherlock choose a bag, then he selected one for himself. 

Sherlock opened the packet and placed his tea bag in the mug.  “We’ll spend the next couple of days being cautious.  Anyone getting such a letter will be understandably paranoid.  But then we’ll relax our guard again and let him watch as we escalate our behavior.  People are weak and complacent and we need to seem as if we’re more and more eager to behave like the couple we are.  Because once the paranoia wears off, the resentment kicks in that we should be forced to hide.  As we told Lestrade, the touching will increase.  Maybe we’ll walk by the sex shop and pause…glance at the window display and whisper…but not go in.  Then one night we have a little too much to drink during dinner and snog in the alley.  Eventually the pull of the sex shop will be too much to resist.  We go inside and explore.”  He held his hands up as if to frame something.  “It will be like scenes of a play.”  He dropped his hands.  “And like with any play, we need to do plenty of rehearsal.”

John looked over at Sherlock, then, his gaze wary.  _Here we go._   The kettle clicked, and John poured the hot water into the mugs.  Then he licked his lips and cleared his throat.  “And what do you mean by rehearsal?”  His tone was even, with a slight tinge of apprehension.  Sherlock was more encouraged by this than if it had an edge of warning.

Sherlock lifted his chin.  “The kissing, of course.  We’ve never actually kissed each other before.  If we have our first go in that alley, it would be obvious.  The only way we can look like we’ve been kissing each other a lot is with practice.”

John shifted from one foot to the other as he put milk in his tea.  “He’s not going to get that close of a look, Sherlock.  If it doesn’t look that authentic, he won’t notice.  Confirmation bias, remember?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, but wasn’t about to give up.  He was _not_ having his first kiss with John be in some alley with a killer for an audience.  “I think it’s highly likely that when we kiss for the first time, you’ll get a fit of the giggles because of the fact that you’re kissing a _man_.  The killer will certainly notice that.”

John put his hands on his hips. “I will _not_!”

Sherlock smothered the urge to smirk.  He had him.  “Yes, you will.  You always giggle when you’re uncomfortable with something.”  John scoffed.  “Fine, prove it.  Kiss me right now.”

John stared.  “Right…right _now_?”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder.  “No time like the present.  I need to be sure you’re not going to panic.”

John rolled his eyes.  “For heaven’s sake, I’m not going to panic.  They’re just a pair of lips.  I’ve kissed plenty of those.  I’m…sure there’s no difference.”  John was staring at Sherlock’s lips now, and he was definitely on the verge of panic. 

Sherlock stepped forward and said gently, “There is no difference, John.  Lips don’t have a gender.  Anyone’s lips can be wide or small, thin or full.”  He stepped forward again.

John nodded absently, and murmured, “Yours are very…full.”  He’d zeroed on Sherlock’s bottom lip, and Sherlock stepped forward again until he was in John’s personal space.

Very softly, he asked, “May I?”  John finally looked up into his eyes.  He took a deep breath and nodded once. 

Sherlock suddenly felt like he was the one who would end up giggling nervously.  He was going to kiss _John_.  He’d snogged plenty of people before, but those were all for cases.  This was the first time it was someone that _meant_ something.  He lifted his hand and slid it around the nape of John’s neck, cradling his head gently as he lowered his own and pressed his lips against John’s.  If any part of him had been cynical enough to think that there would be no difference between those prior kisses and this one, it quickly evaporated.  Sherlock had to use every ounce of control not to melt into the softness of John’s lips as he counted off three seconds.  He lifted his head, striving to keep his breath steady, and watched for John’s reaction. 

John stepped back, a little too quickly.  With an outward calm that Sherlock didn’t feel, he let his hand fall away from John’s neck and drop back to his side.  John huffed a little, not quite a laugh, and smiled.  He bit his lip and lifted a finger.  “I’m not giggling.”

No, he wasn’t.  He was smiling, but it seemed to be in a kind of wonder, not nerves or embarrassment.  Sherlock smiled ruefully, “Well, as we’ve established, I can be wrong about things.  But I still think we should practice.”

John nodded.  “I think you’re right.  I was…thrown a little.  This is definitely not something I’ve ever done with a friend before and it was…surreal.”  He blinked a couple of times and looked up at Sherlock.  “Is that…uh…how you kissed those other people?”  Sherlock looked at him questioningly.  “You said you kissed people for cases.  Is that how you did it?”

That was a very interesting question for John to ask.  “Of course not.  What we just did was extremely chaste.  I kissed people to either distract them or seduce them, and a kiss like that would do neither.  I kept this one simple because I didn’t want you to freak out and punch me in the face.”

John swallowed and held up his hands.  “Well, I didn’t do that, did I?  So, go on.  Kiss me like one of your marks.”  He lifted his chin, his gaze steady.

Sherlock had no intention of kissing him like he was a mark.  Sherlock was going to kiss John in the same way that he felt about him – deeply, longingly, reverently.  The way he’d been wanting to kiss him ever since John shot a man for him.

Sherlock hitched in as much breath as he could without it seeming like he was fortifying himself.  He reached up with both hands and tenderly rested his fingers against the sides of John’s face, along his jawline.  He lowered his head and once again pressed his lips against John’s, sliding over them in a sensual caress.  He trailed his fingers down John’s neck, curling them over his shoulders and pushing gently.  John stumbled back into the wall, Sherlock following as he crowded against him.  He angled his head so that their lips would slot together and he moved his hands back up to John’s neck, gently caressing the soft skin of his neck with his thumbs. Sherlock could feel that John was now grasping the lapels of his suit jacket, as if holding on for dear life. 

Sherlock stepped closer until they were flush up against each other and licked at the seam of John’s lips.  He didn’t know whether this was going too far, but he didn’t care.  He wanted to taste John, if he let him.  John moved his hands around to Sherlock’s back and up until his fingers were curled over his shoulders, either to hold on or pull Sherlock even closer.  He opened his mouth with a sigh and Sherlock felt the adrenaline of triumph and arousal surge through him.  John was letting him in and it was a heady feeling. 

As their tongues slid together, Sherlock could feel John’s breathing become unsteady, and both were escalating Sherlock’s arousal.  He wanted to thrust his hips against John’s, partly out of instinct, and partly to see what his reaction would be if the kiss moved beyond genderless lips and tongues into unmistakable male territory.  But if he did, there would be no plausible deniability of doing this for the case.  He needed to stop before he took it too far.

Sherlock broke the kiss and eased away from John.  John’s hands dropped from his shoulder, and pressed back against the wall.  He looked down and to the side as he got his breathing under control.  Sherlock also took deep steadying breaths as he watched for any sign of anger or disgust.

“So that’s how you kissed them?  Like…like _that_?”  John flicked his eyes up, his lips pressed together.

Sherlock blinked.  There was something fraught about the question.  Was John angry about the idea that Sherlock duped people?  He spoke cautiously.  “I…no.  That was um, beyond what I’ve done before.  I wanted to…to kiss you like someone who is hiding from the world that he is in love with his …his _colleague,_ and hates that he can only call him that.”

John’s lips tightened.  “Right.  So that was…” he gestured with his hand, “…setting the scene.  As you said.  Well, do you think we did a good job?” 

Because Sherlock was a masochist, he shrugged one shoulder and said casually, “It was a start.  We’ll keep practicing.  I want the killer to feel the yearning and frustration and _defiance_ rolling off us in waves.  I want him to realise that his petty little admonishments have only fueled our passion.  I want there to be so much sexual energy between us that it triggers him to violence.” 

John’s eyes widened.  “You really want to get this arsehole, don’t you?”

Sherlock took a deep breath.  It was true.  He really did want to get this guy.  The excuses to kiss John were just a bonus.  “We have to remember that we’re not the only ones he’s watching.  There are at least two other couples who got letters and they only haven’t been attacked because they’ve been behaving by the killer’s standards.  We want the focus of his rage to be on us.”

John squared his shoulders.  “When you put it that way…we need to make this look good.”

Sherlock gave a short nod.  “Exactly.”  He started to turn towards the table, wondering if their tea had gone cold by now. 

Without warning, he felt John using the momentum of his turn to switch their positions so that Sherlock’s back was against the wall and John was draped against him.  Sherlock let out a gust of air when he felt John bury his face into his neck, nuzzling against it as he said, “Frustration and yearning…I can do that.”  He softly bit against Sherlock’s skin right at his artery, and he swallowed a groan as his head dropped back against the wall with a thud.  John’s hands, _god_ , were softly running up and down his torso.  Whatever he’d been about to do next was called off by the sound of footsteps on the stairs.  They both stiffened. 

John pulled away from Sherlock, and it almost seemed reluctant.  The door opened, and Sherlock knew it was Mrs. Hudson, from the tread of her feet.  “Hoo hoo!  Boys?”  She turned and saw them in the kitchen, sipping their now cold tea.  “I just wanted to let you know that I’ve hired a young man to get my Christmas decorations out of storage and help me a bit with decorating.  Don’t go scaring him off, not unless you want to take his place!”

John cleared his throat.  “Understood, Mrs. Hudson.”

She gave Sherlock a warning look and then turned to go back downstairs.  Once the door was closed, John ran his hand down his face.  “Wow.  I just got a firsthand demonstration of what it must feel like to be in a secret relationship.”

 _More than you know_ , Sherlock thought.  Out loud he said briskly, “Indeed.  We can use that feeling when we’re out and about.”  Sherlock strove to curb his resentment at Mrs. Hudson for interrupting them.  It was probably for the best, given how it had been escalating.  He wondered how far John would have gone with his newfound dedication for putting on a show.  Sherlock poured his tea down the sink.


	3. Chapter 3

John wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.  He wanted to catch this killer, he really did.  But it was going to cost him his sanity.  He often felt like he didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t.  For months now, he’d been putting on a front to hide just how captivated he was by Sherlock.  It was constant vigilance, always telling himself, “Be careful how you look at him, how you blog about him.  Watch what you say, watch your body language.”  But now, due to their case, he was expected to ‘act’ like he was in love with Sherlock.  To ‘act’ like he couldn’t resist him, needed to touch him, unable to take his eyes off him, kiss him like no one else in the world existed.  But it wasn’t real, at least not on Sherlock’s part, no matter how much it felt like it.  And once the killer was caught, John would be expected to go back to faking his feelings in order to meet Sherlock’s expectations of reality. 

John regretted all those times he was entertained by Sherlock’s ability to fool people.  He was such a good kisser, and every time they practiced, John would foolishly just about believe it might be real.  But then Sherlock would say something to shatter the illusion.  “That was very convincing, the way you stroked my neck.  Very intimate.” “The moaning was a nice touch, loud enough to carry down an alley.  I should do that myself next time.” “I think if you’re going to squeeze my arse, it needs to be over my coat or else it won’t be seen.”  And then the one from last night: “This has been going quite well, John. I almost feel like we’ve been kissing for months.  Tomorrow night will be the perfect time to do it.  Full moon, and I have found the perfect alley for us.” 

Now here they were, at the restaurant, gazing into each other’s eyes.  Sherlock was really laying it on thick.  He’d chosen to adopt the air of being overwhelmed by his feelings, at turns staring at John in adoration and then looking away as if it were too much.  John had decided to go with a predatory mood.  He gazed at Sherlock intently, using his food as a metaphor for what he’d like to be doing.  He speared a cherry tomato with his fork and opened his mouth wide to insert it.  Sherlock responded by grabbing his wine glass and taking a fortifying sip, never taking his eyes off John’s mouth.  If John weren’t so wound up, he’d probably feel the urge to giggle. 

Soon they would be going out into the street for an evening stroll.  Sherlock was already familiar with their tail, having spotted him the previous evening.  Presumably it was the killer, although there was a possibility he was hiring people for these tasks.  There were, after all, multiple couples he was trailing. As much as John was tempted to chase after him, Sherlock had warned him that it was a waste of time.  Even if they caught him, they would learn very little.  At that point it would be obvious to their target that he was being investigated and ruin all they’ve worked for. 

Once they were sure that they were being followed, they planned to duck into the alley and perform their little show.  Sherlock had given John explicit instructions, complete with demonstrations, on how they should go about it. 

John wondered whether or not there would be any more kissing after this.  Sherlock seemed convinced that once they visit the sex shop, another letter would be fired off to them.  He was hopeful that the killer might be steamed enough to skip the second letter and come after them.  But if it _was_ just a letter, then surely there would be more kissing.  They’d have to escalate somehow to send the guy over the edge.  Last night after they were finished with their kissing practice, John had gone upstairs and indulged in the fantasy of Sherlock suggesting that for their next ‘show’ he would blow John in the alley…and of course they would have to practice.

John bit down rather too vigorously on his tomato at this thought, and a little of the juice dribbled out onto his lip.  He licked the juice off, and Sherlock abruptly set down his glass.  John was startled to see that his pupils had widened, swallowing up the strange and beautiful iris.  How had he managed to make that happen at will?  He must use some trick like the way he was able to cry on cue.  Although John wasn’t why Sherlock would bother with such an effect when the killer wasn’t close enough to see his pupils.

Finally, they finished with dinner, and John could only count his blessings that he wasn’t aroused enough to be obvious when he stood up.  They made their way out of the restaurant, Sherlock swaying a bit as he pretended to be tipsy.  “John,” he drawled loudly as he lowered his head to John’s ear, “Let’s go for a walk. I need to clear my head.” 

John gave him a warm smile.  “Excellent idea.  How about this way?”  He put his hand at the small of Sherlock’s back and steered him in the direction of the sex shop.  They wouldn’t be going in yet.  As with their excursion two nights ago, they’d just look at the advertisements in the window.  But it would be what ostensibly triggers the snogging. 

As they walked, they kept jostling up against each other as planned.  Sherlock kept trying to take his hand and John would give him an admonishing look and pull away reluctantly.  They got to the shop and paused.  Last time, they had given each other smirks.  Sherlock bit his lip and looked around, then shrugged resignedly as they continued walking.  This time, Sherlock looked longingly into the shop, then bent down and whispered in John’s ear.  “I’ve spotted him, we’re definitely being watched.” 

John shook his head on cue and gave Sherlock an apologetic smile.  Sherlock gave him puppy dog eyes and a pouty lip, and damned if John wouldn’t have relented if this scenario were real.  He scowled and shook his head again, turning to continue their walk.  He knew Sherlock was giving the shop a last look before catching up to John.  They went one more block, and then Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled him into their designated alley.

Sherlock manhandled John up against the wall, propping his hand against the bricks as he leaned into John’s body.  John felt the adrenaline pumping through him as it might if they were really in a secret relationship.  “Sherlock, not here!” he hissed in a loud whisper.

Sherlock captured his mouth, using his other hand to rub up and down his chest.  He broke off, panting, “I couldn’t possibly wait any longer, John, not after you’ve been teasing me all night.”

John gulped loudly, not really having to act with the way Sherlock was touching him.  He strove for an indignant tone, “Teasing you?  I was just eating.  For god’s sake, you were the one practically fucking me with your eyes.”

Sherlock kissed him again, licking against his lips.  John moaned.  Sherlock pulled back again.  “I don’t deny it.  How could I not want to fuck you when you’re eating tomatoes in such a filthy manner.”

John let out a shaky laugh.  “You’re drunk, Sherlock.  You know we can’t do this here, it’s too dangerous.”

Sherlock started nuzzling his neck.  “You love danger, it’s why you haven’t pushed me away.  Touch me, John.”  He took John’s hand and started leading it to his crotch.  This wasn’t part of their plan.  God, he was _improvising_.  John jerked his hand away and thrust it into his pocket.  “You’re going to have us arrested!”

Sherlock put his hand in his own pocket.  “Fine, if you won’t get me off, I’ll do it myself.”  He went in for another kiss, and John caught a glimpse of his hand moving as if he were stroking himself.  Jesus bloody Christ.  John couldn’t help but wonder if Sherlock were really hard.  John certainly was, and he was doing his best to keep his hips back away from Sherlock.  Of course, Sherlock might decide to do more improv and press further against him.  There was only one way to make sure that didn’t happen.

John gripped Sherlock’s shoulders and pushed him away.  Sherlock stared at him owlishly.  It looked as if he might have been a bit drunk after all.  John gave him his sternest look. “Sherlock Holmes, get your bloody hand out of your pocket and snap out of it!  I’ve worked too hard to earn us a good reputation just so you can destroy it with a public wank.  If you want to get off, it’s going to be at home and I’ll be the one to do it. Now, let’s go.”  He shifted his hand down to Sherlock’s arm and pulled him back out of the alley.

When they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock threw himself down in his chair.  “That was brilliant, John.  A heck of a performance.”

John slumped into his own chair. “If the detective business doesn’t work out, I suppose there’s always the stage.  Or you could teach an improv class.  What the hell was that about with the pocket pool?”

Sherlock started giggling.  “I figured it would infuriate him if I called attention to my cock and that seemed to be the easiest way.  Thanks for not freaking out when I suggested you touch it.  I know that’s going a bit above and beyond.”

The giggling was infectious and John couldn’t help joining in.  “You think that’s where the line is?  I’ve had your tongue down my throat for the past week, and my hand surgically attached to your arse.  But somehow you think I’m afraid of a cock.  I have one myself, you know.”

Sherlock sobered.  “Not _afraid_ , no.  Repulsed, yes.  There’s a big difference between touching your own and someone else’s.”

John felt like what Sherlock said was more than an intellectual statement.  “You make it sound like you know from experience.  But how could it be if you’re gay?”

Sherlock’s expression grew uncomfortable.  “If you must know, John…that time in my life when I was high all the time...”  He took a deep breath.  “I did give a few hand jobs to dealers.  I drew the line at blowjobs.  Touching them with my hand was awful enough.”  He grimaced.  “I am gay, but I’m also demisexual.  A cock is only interesting if the person is interesting.”  He gave John a wan smile.

John strove to appear composed.  He understood that this was a big admission from Sherlock, even if he had to be half drunk to say it.  It made John feel like an arsehole that he’s kept his bisexuality from him. He cleared his throat.  “Sherlock. I suppose I should appreciate that you’ve been trying to do what you can to preserve what you think of as my fragile straight masculinity.  But I’ve been letting you labour under a false assumption.  I’m actually…bisexual.”  Sherlock looked at him blankly.  “I know you’ve only seen me date women, but I do date men.  Just…very, very rarely.”  Sherlock continued to stare at him blankly.  “You okay, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stood up. “I’m fine, John.  It’s all _fine_ , isn’t that what you like to say?  Thanks for letting me know.  I guess this was the big thing you were hinting so smugly that I got wrong.”  He swallowed thickly. “I…uh…need to go check my e-mails.  Goodnight, John.”  Before John could say anything, Sherlock was heading back to his bedroom and closing the door.

John ran his fingers through his hair, feeling completely wrong-footed.  He’d only been trying to share something personal with Sherlock out of reciprocation.  Maybe Sherlock was annoyed that he hadn’t deduced it?  Or was he upset because John held it back for so long?  If it were either of those things, he’d be over it by tomorrow.  But John couldn’t help but wonder uneasily if it was something more.

*

Sherlock spent the next two days either in his room sulking or glued to his microscope. On those occasions when he was in the kitchen, he spoke only in monosyllables to John.  Sherlock could tell that John was not pleased by this, but he seemed more resigned than angry.  He likely wasn’t sure why Sherlock was behaving this way, and honestly Sherlock wasn’t sure himself.  He could pretend it was pique that he got John’s sexuality wrong, or that John had kept it from him out of spite.  But really it was what Sherlock had deduced from his comment about dating men “very, very rarely.” 

Given how prickly John was when other people assumed his sexuality, it was clear that he was still mostly in the closet about his attraction for men, and so it made sense that he would only date a man if he were special.  A strong attraction, an exceptional person, or both.  By all accounts, John considered Sherlock an exceptional person.  So that must mean that he didn’t find him attractive at all.

Sherlock recalled that first night at Angelo’s when he’d mistakenly thought that John was hitting on him and so rebuffed him.  When John assured him he wasn’t hitting on him, Sherlock had cemented in his mind that John was straight.  Now he wasn’t sure what really had been going on.  Did John proposition him after all, and Sherlock’s rejection had him backtracking to save face?  Or was he being truthful that he was just curious about whether Sherlock had a significant other?  Sherlock didn’t know whether it was worse to think that John may have once been interested and he shut him down, or that he’d never been interested because Sherlock wasn’t his type.

Sherlock also spent time re-evaluating all their kissing from the past week.  From Sherlock’s point of view, he’d had a glorious time.  John was a fantastic kisser, and Sherlock was continually surprised by his willingness to go along with it.  In hindsight, the fact that he was attracted to men would have made it less of a hardship.  But then again (as Sherlock had admitted to John in a moment of wine-fueled weakness), intimacies with someone you are not attracted to was still something of a chore, even if they are the right gender. 

On the morning of the third day, Sherlock decided that he better snap out of his sulk or John would start asking questions he didn’t want to answer.  Besides, they still had the case to be getting on with.  He swept out of his room and into the kitchen where John was having his coffee and some toast.  “Tonight we go out again, and this time we’ll be visiting the sex shop.  I guess since you’ve been with men, I won’t have to explain to you what we’ll be shopping for while we’re there.”

John’s face went very red and he cleared his throat as he put down his coffee mug.  “Erm…I don’t precisely have any experience with…uh…with that sort of stuff.”  He shrugged one shoulder.  “I’ve only dated two men.  One was in university and it didn’t get that far.  We’d only been intimate once and then a classmate outed us and I…broke it off.  The other one was in Afghanistan and they don’t exactly have sex shops over there.”

Sherlock had to concentrate hard to keep his expression neutral, to hide the spike of jealousy at the thought of John with other men, to stop deducing what those men had been like.  “I see.  Fair enough.  I don’t exactly have experience either, as I’ve said.  I just googled ideas of what we could get while we’re there.”

John nodded thoughtfully.  “Yeah, I guess I’ll do the same so I won’t be completely ignorant when we’re in there.”

Sherlock tilted his head.  “Actually, your ignorance might be useful.  You can ask the assistant questions.  I’m sure our killer will be eavesdropping.”

John nodded again and sipped his coffee.  “Fair point.”

*

That evening they followed the typical pattern – long walk in the park followed by a restaurant where they gazed at each other and appeared to drink copious amounts of wine.  Sherlock had spotted their tail in the park, so he knew they were being watched. 

While there was a certain freedom to being able to look at John the way he’d been wanting to look at him for months now, Sherlock still found that he was profoundly frustrated at having to stop short of _touching_ John.  Sherlock supposed he felt some sympathy for those other couples who couldn’t show their affection in public, but at least they got to touch each other behind closed doors.  Sherlock didn’t even have the kissing practices anymore.  He wondered if he could make it sound logical that they should do another alley snog.  Although, even if John agreed to it, he’d probably say that they didn’t need more practice at it. 

Soon enough they were back out on the street.  Sherlock probably brushed up against John more than was absolutely necessary, but he was craving John’s touch.  John was addictive, and Sherlock had a bad history with addictions. 

They once again paused in front of the sex shop.  Per their prearranged plan, Sherlock took John’s hand and tugged, tilting his head towards the shop.  John gave him an admonishing look and pulled his hand away, darting his head from side to side as if to see if anyone was watching.  Sherlock huffed in annoyance, turned and marched into the shop.  John hissed his name, but he ignored it as he let the door swing shut behind him.  After a few seconds, he heard the door open again and John stepped inside.  Sherlock made sure to turn and give John a triumphant smile before the door swung shut. 

At this point, since the shop windows were covered, they were completely obscured from the killer.  Sherlock jerked his head to indicate that John should follow him, and they went down one of the aisles towards the back.  Keeping an eye on the shop assistant, Sherlock whispered, “I estimate he’ll spend the next 5 or 6 minutes debating whether to come inside.  Let’s keep our browsing to a minimum until then.  No need to engage the assistant until we’re sure to have an audience.”

John gave a short nod and began perusing a display of underwear in a truly impressive array of colors.  When he fingered a pair of red pants, Sherlock tore his eyes away and pretended to concentrate on an assortment of lubes while he attempted to slow down his pulse.  The shop was…well, it certainly wasn’t the same as looking at a website.  There as a certain level of detachment when one was scrolling past dozens of small pictures of merchandise.  Here, there were displays and mannequins and everything was _right there_. 

Sherlock didn’t think that normally he would be this unsettled.  He considered himself to be pretty unflappable.  He had to be in his line of work.  It was John’s presence that was throwing him off and it irritated him.  John should be the one red-faced and fidgety.  It didn’t matter that he’d been in sex shops before.  Any of those purchases would have been along the lines of lingerie and pink fuzzy handcuffs.  At the moment he was in a section that obviously catered to gay men.  But was he disturbed?  Not that Sherlock could see.  He was examining a set of anal beads, as serene as if he were reading the ingredients on a pack of biscuits. 

Sherlock finally snapped out of his little crisis when the front door opened and their stalker edged inside.  Finally.  The game was on.  Sherlock grabbed an item at random and went over to John, who was standing near a worker stocking a shelf.  “John, I’d love to see you try this.  What do you think?”

John took the item from him and read the package.  “Anal stuffer tool.  Well, that’s a lovely shade of purple.  And what is the purpose of this…um…tool?”

Sherlock blinked a few times rapidly.  He _knew_ the answer to the question.  He’d done plenty of research.  But all he could think about was what John’s face would look like inserting the tool in his arse.  Coming to this sex shop had clearly been a colossally stupid idea.  He had to say _something_. He began rubbing the back of his neck.  “Erm…well…it’s meant to be…ah…foreplay.  To ease the way for…um…penetrative sex.  Or s…solo enjoyment.”

John tilted his head.  “Solo enjoyment?  I thought this was meant for us to do together.”

Sherlock waved his hand.  “Well, I’m not always around, John.  Sometimes I go out of town.”

John gave him an amused look.  “Good point.  I did miss you when you were in Minsk.”

Sherlock cleared his throat.  “Yes, exactly.  You’d have this to entertain you while I’m away.  So…what do you think?”

John raised his eyebrows as he looked down at it.  “I think it looks a bit big.  I thought butt plugs were supposed to be smaller.  Although I’ve never seen one in person, only in pictures.”

To Sherlock’s relief, the assistant finally appeared next to them.  “If you don’t mind my saying, that particular tool is considered intermediate.  If you’ve never inserted a toy before, definitely go with something smaller.”

John gave the assistant a rueful smile.  “I’ve never had anything larger than a finger inserted.  We’re…uh…hoping to change that.”  He glanced meaningfully at Sherlock.   Sherlock kept his face completely impassive.  He’d have thought that John would want to be the one doing the inserting.  Did he really want to be penetrated?  Focus, _focus_.  Don’t be stupid, this was just John doing improv.  He’s playing off the fact that Sherlock had handed him that bloody toy.  It said nothing about his preferences.

The assistant nodded sagely.  “I _see_.  Well, I think you would find it very useful to get a set with multiple sizes.  They’re called trainer kits.”  He held up a package with three that increased in size.  “You can use these on your own or when you’re together.  They’re great for preparing you for sex, or for extra stimulation when wanking.  Some folks like to wear them as they go about their day, though it isn’t recommended to have them in for longer than 2-3 hours.”

John took the package from the assistant and examined it.  “This looks nice.  What do you think, Sherlock?”

Sherlock felt like he’d lost complete control of the situation.  In an effort to reassert himself, he pointed towards a different set.  “I think I would prefer the one that has the jelly texture.  It seems like it would go in more…softly.”

The assistant nodded. “Oh indeed.  It’s very forgiving.  Does this mean you’re wanting to try them as well?”

Sherlock lifted his chin.  “As we are both inexperienced in this area, we wanted to try both ways.”  Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw that John looked surprised for a second before he schooled his features.

The assistant gave another sage nod.  “Ah yes, that is an excellent approach.  If you are both wanting to experiment with the plugs, I recommend getting separate sets.  While they can be sanitised and shared…better safe than sorry.”

John’s brow wrinkled.  “Two sets, that’s getting a bit expensive.  We’re not even sure if we’ll like it.”

The assistant gave them a knowing look.  “Oh, I have a feeling that you’ll both enjoy it enough that you’ll be back to try some of the bigger models.  And the decorative ones.  Here’s another purple one, but it has a jewel on the end as you can see.”  He held up another package.

Sherlock scowled.  “What is the point of the jewel?  I wouldn’t be able to see it when it’s inserted.”

The assistant looked amused. “You wouldn’t, but…ah… _he_ would.”  He tilted his head towards John. 

John took the package, and a sly smile spread across his face.  “This shade of purple exactly matches that one shirt you have.”

Sherlock felt his face flame up as he imagined parading around in front of John wearing nothing but the shirt and the jeweled plug.  He plucked the set of jelly training plugs off the shelf.  “We’ll take these,” he said tersely as he marched over to the till.  He’d had enough.  He couldn’t stay in this store any longer, with all the suggestions for what he and John could get up to sexually.  It was a good thing his Belstaff hid the evidence that was already burgeoning. 

When he’d paid for the damn thing, he thrust the bag into John’s arms.  “There you go, John. Early Christmas present.”

John took it and smirked.  “Ta.”  He gave a little wave to the assistant as they headed out the door.

Sherlock strode down the street, John trotting to keep up with him.  “Well, that was a nice little shop.  Think I’d like to go back some time.”

Sherlock glared at him.  “Our stalker is nowhere near us, John. You don’t have to keep performing.”

John shrugged.  “I’m serious.  That guy was very helpful.  This should keep me occupied for a good while, now that I no longer have a girlfriend.  The case giveth, and the case taketh away.”  He grinned.

Sherlock tried to hold onto his foul mood, but he couldn’t.  Not when John was being so charming.  He laughed despite himself.  John giggled alongside him. 

When they got back to the flat, Sherlock told John he had to do some thinking in his mind palace and went back to his bedroom.  It was a lie.  This was the most desperate he’d been for a wank in his entire life.

*

John came down the next morning feeling more relaxed than he had in a long time.  He’d tried out the smallest plug last night and it had felt _wonderful_.  He’d only felt the slightest bit of shame for fantasising about Sherlock’s cock as he eased it in. 

He found a note from Sherlock indicating that he would be at St. Bart’s examining an atrophied foot that Molly told him about.  Probably a good thing he wouldn’t see him till after work. Sherlock would likely be able to deduce everything that John got up to last night.

John went on to work and spent the whole day dealing with mostly cold weather viruses and such.  The most interesting patient was a gent who feared he had frostbite because he passed out drunk on his front step the night before.  It wasn’t frostbite, but rather a bit of plastic that got stuck to his finger.

As John was leaving, Sarah called out to him that he’d just got a letter.  The post had already come mid-day, but this was hand-delivered.  John felt goosebumps on the back of his neck as he looked at the envelope.  He sincerely hoped it was a courier that dropped it off.  Sarah had had enough brushes with evil for one lifetime.  John was tempted to open it, but knew Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate it.  John texted him and said to meet him at the Yard. 

John got a taxi, there was no way he was navigating the tube with an important piece of evidence.  He gusted out a sigh.  It had worked.  The kiss and the sex shop had pissed off the killer enough to fire off another letter.  He felt his fight reflex kicking in.  So many times in the past week they’ve been close to this arsehole.   He was in the same shop with them just last night.  Eavesdropping on their banter about butt plugs.  Judging them.  John clenched his fist as he tried not to think about his father.  About his classmates.  All the people who would have looked at him with either amusement or revulsion if they had known the truth.

He'd forced himself not to be bothered by it growing up.  As a teenager there were plenty of girls that caught his eye, so he never felt sexually frustrated enough to approach another boy and risk exposure.  Romantically, though, he found it hard to really connect to anyone - could never keep a girlfriend for very long.  At first, he attributed it to his young age.  Then at university he chalked it up to his medical course load.  That was the excuse he used with Kevin, anyway.  Except unlike when he’d broken it off with girls, this one really hurt.  He’d felt a connection with Kevin.  And the one time they had sex had been fantastic, even if it was just frotting up against each other.  But the old fear had taken hold when bloody Peter walked in on them kissing, and so John broke it off.

It wasn’t until James Sholto, in Afghanistan, that he began to suspect that he was more romantically attracted to men than women.  This time it was John that was dumped, and it was definitely much more painful than any of the women that told him to piss off.  He’d wanted to work it out, despite Sholto’s doubts about their differences in rank.

Sherlock was the one who confirmed once and for all that John became much more emotionally attached to men than women.  Never had he felt for anyone what he felt for Sherlock.  The connection was so strong and immediate that John had let his guard slip and asked him out the very first night.  It had taken months with both Kevin and James before he even dared to flirt.  And here he was licking his lips and asking about Sherlock’s relationship status before his bloody meal was on the table.

He should have seen it as a huge red flag and backed out of being his flatmate, but it was too late.  He was hooked.  He tried to mitigate it by dating women, but that was a resounding failure.  Now here he was pretending to secretly date this bloody wonderful man for an audience of one, and he was wishing it was a real relationship that was not a secret.  The kind of relationship where they somehow sensed that it would last forever.  The kind where they knew each other in every intimate way and didn’t hold back. 

John blinked when the cabbie announced they’d arrived at New Scotland Yard.  He paid him and went inside.  When he was escorted back to Lestrade’s office, Sherlock was already there.  Sherlock leapt to his feet, holding out his hand.  John gave him the letter. 

Sherlock stared at the envelope for a moment, his lips pressed together.  “Why did he deliver it to your office?  Lestrade, does the file indicate where the letters were delivered in the other cases?”

Greg rubbed his chin.  “I can check.  Don’t recall off the top of my head.”

Sherlock made a derisive noise.  “I just need to know his pattern.  He’s deviated from the method he used with the last letter.  Is that typical for him?”

John’s brow furrowed.  “Does it matter?”

Sherlock glared at him.  “Last time it was delivered to _us_.  This time it was to _you_.  I don’t like it.”

John pulled a face.  “Well, I can guess why he sent it to the clinic.  I’m a doctor.  One of the most respectable professions in the world.  Combined with the fact that I’m a war veteran, he must _really_ be peeved that I would allow myself to be buggered by my flatmate.”

Greg choked on his coffee.  Sherlock looked skeptical.  “Well let’s see what he has to say.”  He carefully opened the envelope with a small blade.  John felt déjà vu from the Moriarty case.

They all read through the letter together.  It was the most hateful of any that he’d seen so far.  Their stalker detailed many of their comings and goings since the last letter and ended with the threat that one more step out of line would have fatal consequences.  It even mentioned the two men that he murdered. 

Sherlock smiled grimly.  “He’s referencing his other victims.  Serial killers only connect their crimes when they want attention.  And once they get that attention, they get sloppy.  It’s time for the next phase of the plan.  First things first – get John out of town.”

John scowled.  “What?  Why?”

Sherlock jabbed his finger at the letter.  “He’s pretty amped up right now, but he’s not stupid.  If we continue to egg him on, he’ll see through us.  We have to do what we did after the last letter – appear to be on our best behavior.  And I think the only thing that will assure him is plenty of physical distance. It’s why he backed off that one other couple.”

Greg ran his fingers through his hair.  “So…what?  You’re going to invent a relative in America for him to visit?”

Sherlock shook his head.  “No need for a lie when the truth will do.  John, you remember that medical conference I said was a waste of your time?  The one in Edinburgh next week?”

John felt his neck get a little hot.  When he got the invite a few months ago, he’d wanted to go because a cute doctor from the clinic was attending and he also needed the professional credits.  The incident with Irene Adler had caused it to go right out of his head.  “What about it?”

“You’re going.  A week away will be plenty of time for the killer to cool off.  Then we can implement my latest idea.  Oh, you’re going to love it.”  Sherlock had that mischievous smile that usually meant that John would actually hate it. 

John spread his hands.  “Sherlock, the registration for that conference is long since closed.”

“Nope,” Sherlock popped the P, “I signed you up earlier, paid all your fees, and booked the train.  You leave tomorrow.”  As John goggled at him, Sherlock turned to Greg.  “We’ll keep in touch as the case progresses.  Laters!”  He stood and swept out of the room.

John gave a quick wave to Greg and hurried after Sherlock.  “When did you have time to do all that?  We only just got the letter.”

Sherlock smirked.  “Oh, I knew we would get it today, I was only wrong about where it would be delivered.  I even had time to pack your things.  I made sure to include only the nicest of your bland jumpers for that doctor woman you want to impress.”

John glared at him.  “Oh, you’re actually helping me get dates now?  That’s a switch.  Except I’m not really wanting to get back on the horse, ta very much.”

Sherlock gave him an irritated look.  “It’s for the case, John.  If you start dating this woman, it will lure the killer into a false sense of security.”

John wasn’t sure why he felt so irritated by the idea of Sherlock actually encouraging him to get with a woman, but found himself saying a little too vehemently, “I’m not going to date someone for a case!”

Sherlock scowled.  “You’re dating _me_ for a case.”

They’d reached the front of the building, and stepped out into the cold air.  John took several deep breaths through his nose.  “You know that it’s fake, this woman would not.  I’m not like you, Sherlock.  I don’t string people along with fantastic kisses for a case.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  “Are you admitting that I’m a fantastic kisser?”

John felt himself go red.  “I’m saying that the people you kissed would have thought it was fantastic because they believed it to be real.”

“John, don’t feel sorry for them.  They were all suspects.  Or accomplices.”

John stuck his hands in his pockets.  “You also charm innocent people.  I’ve seen what you do to Molly when you want something from her.”

Sherlock gave him a perplexed look. “I thought I was being obvious that it’s a ploy.  She doesn’t _really_ take me seriously when I give her compliments, does she?”

John took another deep breath as Sherlock hailed a taxi.  When they’d settled into the back seat, John tried to explain carefully without making it sound like he was speaking from experience. “When a person has strong feelings for another, and those feelings are unrequited, it becomes very difficult to be objective.  Anything that person says or does is filtered through wishful thinking.  Or the opposite can happen.  You’re so afraid of the wishful thinking trap that no matter how much that person might be giving off signals that they like you back, you automatically reject the notion.”

Sherlock looked pensively out the window for a few moments, then turned his head and saw John was waiting for him to comment.  He rolled his eyes.  “Sounds exhausting.  Why do people want to fall in love again?”  His brow furrowed, and after a few moments he said in a low voice, “I don’t actually want to lead Molly on.”  He went back to looking out the window. 

John looked out his own window.  He was very uneasy about the idea of leaving Sherlock alone for a week when a murderer had them in his sights.  But he knew Sherlock well enough by now that if he skipped the conference and stayed home, there was no telling what Sherlock would do in retaliation.  He didn’t like it when John thwarted his plans.  Besides, he really did need the credits.  There was less than a month left in the year and he’d been neglecting them in favour of running around after Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not knowing what London sex shops look like, I used google street view to search. Clonezone had pics of the interior and the fabulous display of pants. Totally made me think of Red Pants Monday.
> 
> I knew I'd be having them kiss in the alley, but when I saw this fan art by Reapersun, it sort of set the scene for me:
> 
> http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/29538598458/i-just-want-kisses-kisses-in-trench-coat-on


	4. Chapter 4

Two days into John being gone, Sherlock was already tempted to riddle the wall with bullets.  He decided this time on a different sort of distraction.  He went back to the sex shop, having dodged his tail, and bought another trainer kit.  The same assistant was there and asked after John.  Sherlock growled that he was gone for a week, which earned him a sympathetic look and a suggestion that he get a prostate stimulator. 

Sherlock rounded out his purchase with a purple jeweled plug.  He hadn’t been able to stop fantasizing about the image that had sprang to mind when John made the connection to his favourite shirt.  He had no illusions that John would ever see him wearing the plug, but it would make the fantasy feel more real if he wore it when he was pleasuring himself.

A year ago, Sherlock would never have considered such a purchase.  His body was transport, and his libido was forced into submission along with other supposed needs such as food and sleep.  John had weakened him, always nagging him to have regular meals and get a full night’s sleep.  It followed that John would also be responsible for the return of Sherlock’s sex drive. 

Fortunately for Sherlock, his mind was still razor sharp.  Better, in fact, for the presence of John. Somehow, he helped Sherlock to have a sharper focus.  Acted as a sort of lightning rod.  He was becoming indispensable to the Work, which was troublesome because he was difficult to control.  If John decided to leave, he would not be able to stop him and that was not an outcome that Sherlock wanted to contemplate.

 

Sherlock definitely enjoyed the prostate stimulator, but the plugs in the trainer kit were by far his favourite.  He loved that he could wear them anywhere, and no one would have any idea.  St. Bart’s, New Scotland Yard, helping Mrs. Hudson test out recipes.  Although it turned out there was at least one person who figured it out immediately.  Five minutes after entering the flat, Mycroft gave him a look of severe disappointment, and changed his mind about bullying Sherlock to do his dirty work regarding some diplomatic crisis.  It was fantastic. 

Sherlock still missed John.  He solved a case that he felt sure John would have blogged about if he had been there.  John would have been vastly entertained by the notion of six statues of Margaret Thatcher with devil horns.  In a fit of nostalgia, Sherlock went through John’s blog, reading his entries.  He realised that it was a year ago that John made his first entry.  “Nothing.”  That was what he wrote.  John once explained to him that his therapist suggested he write about what happens to him.  He’d responded that _nothing_ ever happened to him. 

Sherlock thought back to what had been going on in his life this time last year.  By this point, there had been two of the supposed suicides and he’d been intrigued.  He was helping Scotland Yard and occasionally getting clients and posting on his website.  It was the happiest he’d ever been up to that point, but there was still something missing and he couldn’t pinpoint what.  At the time he hadn’t understood that someone like John could exist.  Someone who found crime solving fascinating as he did – not just a job to be done like the Yarders seemed to view it, but actually fulfilling and enjoyable.  And John seemed to accept Sherlock for who he was, even when he was driving John round the twist.  Not only that, but John considered Sherlock valuable.  A person worthy of being saved.  Sherlock would never forget as long as he lived that John killed a man for him. 

Sherlock clicked to go back to the main page, and was surprised to see there was a new blog entry. 

“Happy anniversary to this blog.  I can actually say ‘happy’ because my life is so much better than it was a year ago when I made my first entry.  There have been times I was tempted to delete those initial posts because they are a reminder of one of the lowest points of my life.  But I decided to keep them because it also shows how only six weeks later I met Sherlock and my life changed forever.  The lesson being that life can turn on a dime.

Currently I’m in Edinburgh at a medical conference.  Years ago, I might have been glad for a chance to get away from the tedium of everyday life and explore a beautiful city.  But all I can think about is getting back home to the adventures that await.  Sherlock told me about a case he solved this week involving miniature statues of Margaret Thatcher, and I wish I had been there. 

Well, at least I’m getting the credits I need to continue practicing medicine, which is important to me.  Of course it is.  Just not the most important thing, anymore.”

Sherlock felt heat creep up his neck and his breath hitched.  This was just what he’d been thinking about.  A year ago, he would have scoffed at the notion of anyone else appreciating him or his work.  Of anyone actually _missing_ him who wasn’t a blood relative.

He should be annoyed.  The whole point of John going away was to get the killer feeling complacent after a perceived victory.  Then when Sherlock enacts the next phase of his plan, the killer will be caught off guard.  He will experience a spike of fury that will compel him to act before he’s made a solid plan.  He’ll make _mistakes_. 

But now this blog entry will kill that feeling of victory, have him alert again. All because of John’s sentiment.  Really, Sherlock should feel quite irritated.  He decided to leave a flippant comment, hoping it would mitigate the soppiness of John’s blog entry.  “I wish you had been here as well, then Mrs. Hudson would have taken you on her errands instead of me.  Now she’s upset and won’t make me tea.”

Sherlock smiled at the subsequent flurry of comments where John wanted to know what happened and Mrs. Hudson (logged in as Mrs. Turner) told him about being escorted out of the shop by the police for apparently offending Father Christmas and the families waiting to see him.  John said that he had considered taking Sherlock Christmas shopping when he got back, but now he’s changed his mind.  Sherlock responded that some good came out of the ordeal after all.  John answered, “You mad man.  :)”  Sherlock could picture the fond smile on John’s face, and missed him more than ever.

*

John was glad to be back at Baker Street.  Seeing Sherlock after having been gone a week, he felt overwhelmed.  It was different from when he went to New Zealand.  He’d needed to get away then, the events with Moriarty having been so intense, and he’d only known Sherlock two months at that point.  He’d also been trying to concentrate on giving it a go with Sarah.

This time around, he’d missed Sherlock so much more.  He kept wishing Sherlock was there with him, imagining all the things he’d get up to.  There was a Crimes of Edinburgh tour that he would have enjoyed – probably would have known more details than the tour guide.  John also found that his interest in the cute doctor had completely disappeared.  Even when she flirted with him at the local one night while everyone was getting pissed.  Now that he’d kissed Sherlock, even if it wasn’t real, he was completely ruined. 

It was ironic, in a way.  A year ago, John was so miserable that it showed and he never got so much as a second glance from any women.  Once he started living with Sherlock and regained his confidence, he started getting second glances and then some.  But the longer he lived with Sherlock, the less he gave second glances to others.   

John needed to seriously think about what this meant for the rest of his life.  Or however long he had before Sherlock cut him loose.  He really had no frame of reference for this.  The perils of living with an extraordinary person.  People don’t typically fall in love with their flatmate.  Or desire to prolong what is generally meant to be a temporary stopping point on the way to “settling down.”  Christ, the very idea of getting married and moving to a suburb and having kids was not at all appealing. 

But what did Sherlock want?  Did he ever think about the future?  Did he have any goals beyond crime-solving?  Where did he see himself in 30 years?    John wondered if he should ask.  But if he did, Sherlock might figure out that he had a reason for wanting to know – the reason being that he wanted to share that future with him. 

The last time he’d spent any time thinking about it, he’d theorised that Sherlock was asexual and considered the possibility of telling him that he’d be open to having a relationship with him that didn’t involve sex.  Now he knew that Sherlock was gay and demisexual.  John wasn’t so much surprised that he was gay.  But the more he thought about it, it was curious that he claimed to only feel attraction when emotion was involved.  Given how much Sherlock reveres intellect and derides sentiment, John would have taken him for a sapiosexual.

John wondered how he knew he was demisexual.  Has Sherlock ever felt an emotional attachment to anyone other than him?  Possibly Greg.  From what John knows about their past, Greg was one of the few who appreciated Sherlock’s great brain without letting his ego get in the way.  He’d given Sherlock a chance and John knew it meant a lot to him.  So, John grudgingly supposed there might be an emotional aspect there.  But did that then lead to an attraction?  Sherlock was always getting his name wrong.  If he were attracted to Greg, surely he’d at least remember his name.  Unless…unless he was so attracted to Greg that it was making him stupid. 

John felt crushed by this new theory.  Sherlock attracted to Greg?  And never acting on it because Greg was straight and married…albeit on shaky ground.  Oh god.  Oh god oh _god_.  That cryptic comment by Greg last week and Sherlock’s equally cryptic response.  He thought at the time that if Greg wasn’t speaking strictly hypothetically, that maybe he had a thing for a coworker.  But what if he read it wrong?

John made a noise of disgust.  He needed to stop obsessing over Sherlock’s love life.  He needed to stop obsessing over Sherlock.  He didn’t stand a chance with him, full stop.  If Sherlock really was demisexual, then apparently whatever emotional bond they had – where John was willing to kill for him _and_ die for him - wasn’t enough.  If Sherlock was sapiosexual, which was more likely, then John was off the table completely.  He may be intelligent and skillful from any normal person’s perspective, but Sherlock wasn’t normal.  No wonder he hadn’t been dating anyone.  The only ones who could keep up with him were his brother, an insane criminal, and a dominatrix.

John finished unpacking and took his laundry basket downstairs to wash the dirty items that had accumulated in his suitcase.  Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table sipping a cup of tea, and when he saw John he pushed a mug in his direction.  John smiled.  “Ta!”  This was a sure sign that Sherlock was glad to have him home.  He rarely deigned to make tea himself.  John set the basket down and sipped his tea.  It was perfect.  Sherlock preferred to use loose tea instead of bags.  He seemed to always know the perfect temperature, mix of leaves, steeping time, etc.  Like he made a study of tea at some point.  It was why John lamented that he didn’t make it more often.

As they sat in companionable silence, a soft moan emitted from Sherlock’s mobile.  John froze with his mug halfway to his lips.  He frowned.  “Wow, I just realised that it’s been ages since you last got a text from her.”

Sherlock picked up the mobile, read the text, then set it down again.  “No, I still get them all the time.  Since we started the case, I’ve been in the habit of silencing my ringer.  Wouldn’t do to have an orgasmic female moan going off when we’re trying to stare into each other’s eyes during dinner.”

John’s lips tightened.  “Yeah, that’d be a bit of a mixed message.”  He told himself that he shouldn’t be upset that this was still ongoing.  “So, why’d you turn the ringer back on?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “You were gone, so the charade was on hold.  I wanted to be able to hear my alerts.”  John told himself he meant any alerts about potential cases. That answered the question of why he was quicker to respond to texts this past week than he had in the past couple of months. 

“Speaking of the charade, are you ready to share your big plan for setting off the killer this go round?”

Sherlock straightened up.  “Yes, you’re right.  We need to get started.  Step one will be for you to do your laundry straightaway.  You’ll want everything to be fresh and clean when you repack it.”

John’s face fell.  “You’re not sending me off again, are you?”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed.  “I’m sending us both off!  We’re shortly about to have contractors coming in to do some necessary renovations to the kitchen and bathroom.  It will be completely uninhabitable for four days, so we need to stay at a hotel.”

John’s eyes widened.  “What did you do?”  He took a look around the kitchen to see if any damage was visible.

Sherlock smirked.  “It’s not emergency repairs, just some work that Mrs. Hudson wanted doing.  I’ve put her off for months about it.  But we need an excuse to go to a hotel, so I got her to agree to schedule it for this week using a contractor I know that was available on short notice.  I got his mistress off on a murder charge.”

John ran his hand up the back of his neck.  He was not keen on the idea of going right back to a hotel.  “Okay, so what does this have to do with the case?”

Sherlock leaned forward.  “You remember in one of Pringle’s letters the killer cited a couples massage?”

John nodded.  “Yeah, the one at that posh salon that Sarah always talks about.”

Sherlock gave him a knowing look, “How did the killer know it was a couples massage?  That salon does a variety of services.”  John didn’t try to guess, just waited patiently for him to elaborate.  “My theory is that he bribed someone at the salon to tell him what they had done.”

John exhaled, “Okaaay.  That makes sense.  Still not seeing the connection to a hotel.  Are we going to one that has massage services?”  He asked the last bit hopefully.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.  “No, I just used the massage as an example of how far he’s willing to go to snoop on our activities.  We need to do something big that will finally put him over the edge, and I think the quickest way to get there is to provide incontrovertible proof that the two of us are having sex.  Now, obviously we can’t arrange for him to catch us in the act.  The next best thing is for him to find out that we’ve been staying for several days in _one_ hotel room with _one_ bed that is obviously being slept in by both of us.”

John mentally stuttered over the image of being caught in the act of fucking, so it took him a moment to comprehend that Sherlock was planning for them to sleep in the same bed for four days.  To cover up his shock, he cleared his throat.  “So…uh…you’re thinking he’ll bribe the hotel staff?”

“Yep.”  Sherlock popped his P.  “Won’t even hesitate.”

John had to admit it was a good plan, but jesus, mary, and joseph, how was he going to get through it?  They’d slept in the same bed while they were in Sussex during the lion’s mane case, but that was one night, and Sherlock spent the whole time going on and on about various types of jellyfish and similar organisms.  The only temptation John had felt was to smother him with a pillow.

John gave a short nod of resignation.  “So, when do we go to the hotel?  Where are we staying?”

“Tomorrow.  Park Avenue Baker Street.  I chose a place nearby for convenience.”

“Ta.”  John appreciated that he wouldn’t have to vary his routine too much.  It was the last week before Christmas, not the best of times for navigating London.

“We can mention in our blogs that any in-person inquiries will have to be made at the hotel. Not that I expect us to get much in the way of clients, but it’s a nice heads up for our killer.”

“I suppose we’ll need to be on our guard the whole time.  I mean we’re finally at that point, yeah?”

Sherlock tented his fingers.  “Indeed.   We’ve been working up to this point for weeks now.  We’ll let Lestrade know, as well as my brother.  Keep your gun on you at all times, of course.”

John stared at him.  “Did you say your brother?  You’re going to involve Mycroft?”

Sherlock scowled.  “The more eyes on us, the better.  I don’t want you getting killed, John.”

John felt something warm unfurl in his chest.  “That goes for you too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock continued to tap his fingers against his lips.  “I assume that the killer will try to take us when we are together, it would be the most convenient.  But that doesn’t mean we should be complacent when we’re on our own.  He can always kill us separately and then arrange us together.”

John blew out his breath.  “Well, let’s hope this scheme of yours works quickly.  The sooner we get this guy, the sooner we can go back to normal.” 

Sherlock lifted his chin, his expression shuttered.  “Yes, I’m sure you’re dying to go pick out the latest in your long line of idiot girlfriends.  You’ll have to go for one that doesn’t follow current events and wouldn’t have seen us in the papers.”

John glared at him over the rim of his mug and tried to remember why he’d fallen for an insufferable cock.  “I meant normal as in the normal sort of danger we always find ourselves in, where we leap into it head first.  Not the kind we’re about to experience where we’re always looking over our shoulders, constantly on our guard against mortal danger.  It wears on you.  I had enough of it in Afghanistan.”

Sherlock’s expression softened.  “I see.”  He bit his lip and made an effort to look contrite.  “Shall I make more tea?”  Ah.  Now John remembered why he fell for him.

*

The next day they exited 221B with their suitcases, John looking resigned.  Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was due to having to share a bed with him or if he was just sick of hotels.  Mrs. Hudson at least was quite happy that she’d finally be getting her renovations done.  In addition to doing the work on short notice, the contractor had also lowered his price and even offered to do something about the damp in 221C.

Sherlock shook his head as he hailed a taxi.  “I don’t know why he’s doing all that, I only requested that he do the job on short notice.”

John smirked at him as they climbed into the taxi with their luggage.  “Sherlock, as soon as he arrived you started deducing the state of his marriage.  Didn’t you say he had a mistress?  He’s probably worried you’ll rat him out.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please, as if I care to get involved in a domestic.  I should text him to rescind his offer about the damp.  If the basement flat becomes livable again, someone might actually start living there.”

John giggled.  “We can’t have that.  Everything is perfect just the way it is.”

Sherlock smiled fondly.  “I’m in complete agreement.  Baker Street is the first place where I’ve truly felt like I’m at home.  If I don’t muck it up, I could see myself staying there for years.”

John gave him a considering look.  “Yeah?”

Sherlock smiled in amusement.  “The last place I lived, the landlord got fed up with my experiments and booted me.  I lucked out with Mrs. Hudson.  The stuff we’ve got up to since we moved in, no one else would have put up with it.  It probably would have been worse if you hadn’t been around to restrain my more destructive habits.  I might have even reached Mrs. Hudson’s limits.”

John chuckled.  “I don’t doubt it.  Well, it seems to me that if you’re wanting to stick around Baker Street for a good long while, you’ll need me around to keep you just short of eviction.”  John’s tone was flippant, almost _too_ flippant.  Sherlock’s smile was blandly agreeable, while inside he was trying to figure out if this was subtext or an opening for a more serious conversation.  Unfortunately, they arrived at their hotel before he could find out more.

Sherlock was relieved to see that the bed was exactly the kind that he’d requested.  When he looked at pictures of the rooms online, there were some options where the double bed was actually two singles pushed together.  That was out of the question, because John might suggest they move the beds apart to sleep and then push them back together in the morning. 

One of the other hotels he considered had an unusual arrangement where the bathroom was separated from the bedroom by an opaque glass wall.  Sherlock got enough of a tease at Baker Street whenever John was in the bathroom and Sherlock could see his faint outline as he brushed his teeth or disrobed for the shower.  In this case, the wall extended to the shower as well, and it would have left very little to the imagination.  Sherlock had briefly considered booking the room, but he knew John would balk as soon as he saw the wall and probably call off the hotel scheme entirely.  So instead, Sherlock booked a hotel with a boring traditional bathroom, and then he went off to his bedroom to fantasise about what might have been.

John glanced over at the bed and grimaced.  “Is that a double?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Standard size for small hotels with small rooms.  We’ll fit, John.  You’re only…”

John leveled a warning look at him.  “I know what you’re about to say.  Do not.”

Having turned the ringer back off, it took Sherlock a moment to feel his mobile vibrating.  He saw that he had a text from Lestrade.  He read it out loud, “Got the report that you’re all checked in, thought you might have time to look at a murder victim dressed as the top half of a reindeer.”  He smirked.  “As irritating as the holidays are, the cases are rarely boring.  Shall we go?”

John chuckled.  “Yeah, I suppose we can unpack later.”

 

Sherlock had booked four nights with the idea that it may take that long for the killer to see the blog entry about their temporary relocation, case the hotel, and observe who would be most likely to take a bribe.  If he moved quickly, he might know as early as tomorrow afternoon.  Unlikely, though.  Sherlock figured they had at least two nights before they were potentially attacked.  Two nights of being crowded with John in that small bed.  He’d never slept with someone before, and he hoped it involved frequent contact.

The reindeer case extended into the very late evening with the discovery of another victim wearing the bottom half of the reindeer costume.  It had turned out that the wife of the bottom half got it into her head that her husband and his coworker were lovers and killed them in a rage.  It wasn’t true, they just thought it would be hilarious to wear the costume to the office Christmas party.  Oddly enough, the idea of her husband bottoming for another man had upset her more than the cheating itself.  John had quipped, “Can you blame him?  I mean, did you see the horns on that reindeer’s head?”

Greg and a few others at the scene snorted with laughter.  Anderson shot John a distasteful look and asked, “And which one of you wears the horns in _your_ relationship?”

The laughter stopped, but John just gave him that dangerous little smile of his and said, “Oh I’d say we’re both pretty horny.”  This earned a fresh round of laughter, and Sherlock had to restrain himself from gaping at him.  He’d expected John to say something like, “Oi, shut it!”  Instead it was like he was confirming what everyone suspected.  Maybe he just couldn’t resist the pun. 

They picked up take away on the way back to the hotel room and ate as much as they could before they started nodding off.  Sherlock supposed it was good they were so exhausted, or else he’d probably succumb to nerves.  As it was, they barely kept their eyes open as the packed away the food in the mini fridge and brushed their teeth.  Sherlock collapsed onto the bed.  John had to work the next day to make up for being gone a week, so he put out his work clothes and set his mobile alarm before also coming to bed.  Sherlock was too far gone to register anything more than a dip in the mattress as John got in.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been a long time since John dreamed about Kevin.  At least, he _thought_ he was dreaming about Kevin.  After all, there’d only been one time where he’d lain in bed with a strong arm wrapped around his waist and a cock nestled into his hip.  It was one of the purest moments of his life, and he supposed he couldn’t blame his brain for wanting to dredge it up.  Except that pure moment had turned sour the moment Peter walked in.  John found himself tensing up, waiting for that moment to happen in the dream. 

John might have gone on thinking it was a dream, except that the male body next to him snuggled even closer, and made a sleepy rumbling noise that was far too deep to be Kevin.  Not even Sholto could get to that register.  The only person he knew that could make a hum that subsonic was Sherlock. 

John’s eyes flew open and he darted quick looks around the room before finally remembering.  They were at the hotel.  He sighed softly in relief and then glanced over at Sherlock.  His breath caught when he saw Sherlock’s face, half nestled into his shoulder.  John had never seen him looking so peaceful, nor so beautiful with his soft mouth and tousled curls.  How was it possible that this brilliant, acerbic, cock of a man could look so angelic as he slept?  Longing shot through him at the idea of waking up to this every morning.  He took a deep breath and willed away the pricking at the back of his eyes. 

John turned his head away and peered at the hotel room clock.  There was about 20 minutes before his alarm was set to go off.  He could try to get back to sleep, or just go ahead and get up.  He was leaning towards the latter, because even though both of their cocks were at rest right now, the mere proximity of them was giving his own ideas.

John gently grasped Sherlock’s wrist and slowly peeled his arm away from his stomach.  It wasn’t subtle enough, because Sherlock jerked awake.  “What!?  Who!?”  He sat up, blinking rapidly, and then looked down at John.  “Oh.  Good morning, John.”  He frowned.  “Why are we awake?  Your alarm didn’t go off.”

John smiled.  “Morning, Sherlock.  I woke up early, I guess cos I’m not used to this.  Figured I’d get an early start.”  He started to climb out of bed. 

Sherlock grabbed his arm.  “Wait! Before you go, I need your help.  We have to make the sheets look like we’ve been going at it.”

John felt like something went thump in his chest.  “Do what, now?”

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently.  “You have more experience than I do with this.  Just how mussed do they need to be?”

John huffed out a laugh.  “Well it would depend on…you know…how vigorous it was.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Obviously it has to be enough that the housekeeper can tell.  And I want it to look really authentic.  Just rumpling it with my hand won’t do.”

John raised his eyebrows.  “Well, what do you suggest?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed for a few moments, but then it cleared.  “You know what activity somewhat mimics sex?  Wrestling!”

Without any further warning, Sherlock began to fling himself over John.  John’s instincts kicked in quickly, and he hooked his leg and arm around Sherlock’s and flipped them so he was on top.  It took a moment to get Sherlock pinned down with his limbs flailing everywhere.  When he finally got him in a side pin, Sherlock thrashed a few moments longer and then stilled.  Just as John was catching his breath, Sherlock lifted his head and bit down on John’s neck.  He didn’t break the skin, but it startled John enough so that he scrambled up and away.  “What the hell, Sherlock?!”

Sherlock smirked.  “Love bite.  In case the killer gets close enough to see.”

John rubbed the mark.  “I don’t want my patients seeing!  I’ll have to wear a turtleneck now, if I packed one.”

Sherlock ignored him and looked at the state of the bed.  The duvet was halfway to the floor, and the sheets were a mess with one corner having been dislodged from the mattress.  “Well, what do you think?”

John sighed and raked his fingers through his hair.  “It certainly looks like I was thoroughly fucked into the mattress last night.”  He giggled and shook his head.

Sherlock gave him a considering look.  “That’s the fourth time you’ve made a reference to being a bottom during sex.  I would have figured you for a top.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “Um…why is that?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “You’re a doctor.  And you were a Captain in the Army.  Both professions are typical of people who like to be in charge.”

John took a deep breath.  Part of him wanted to run away from this conversation.  It wasn’t exactly the sort of thing blokes talked about with each other.  But if he really wants to be with Sherlock long term, and if there was a remote chance in hell that Sherlock would ever want to have sex with him, John needed to actually be able to _talk_ about it with him. 

Steeling himself to open up in a way that he’d never done before, John responded, “Yeah, that’s true, but this isn’t about professions.  This is about sex, which has no…chain of command.  When you strip it down to the act itself, the only differences between topping and bottoming are that they produce different sensations.  Obviously there’s a lot more to sex than just the act itself, I’m just trying to point out that it doesn’t have to be complicated.  Maybe I want to do stuff that feels good.  I’ve heard bottoming feels _really_ good.”  John knew he wasn’t being completely candid, but that was fine. The main thing was to address Sherlock’s assumptions.

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened.  “So, you’ve not actually done it.  You’ve only topped.”

John blew out a breath.  “No.  Not even that.  The sex has all been non-penetrative.  With men, anyway.”  He was unable to prevent the bitter note from creeping into his voice.

Sherlock tilted his head.  John could tell the deductions were flying and he could only hope that he wouldn’t say something hurtful.  “I imagine in Afghanistan it was difficult to find the time or place for such activities.”

As usual, he right on target.  John sniffed.  “Yes.  Yes it was.  Even more so since he was my commanding officer.  We couldn’t afford to get caught.  Not long into our relationship, we finally had a night where we could take some time.  I wanted to bottom.  But he had this idea in his head that if I topped him, that would make up for the power imbalance.  He was really hung up over the difference in rank.  And I get it.  Looking back, I probably would have had reservations if I were in his shoes.  But at the time, all I cared about was being with him.  And I hated that he brought his insecurities into our sex life.  So naturally I let my own insecurities take over.  We argued, and eventually ran out of time.”

John thought he saw empathy in Sherlock’s eyes.  “And that turned out to be your only chance, because the relationship ended soon after.  Was it because of…”  He nodded towards John’s shoulder.

John’s lips tightened.  “No.  He broke it off.  Couldn’t get past our ranks.  It probably would have ended anyway.  Between my injury and what happened to him…” John broke off.  He didn’t really want to share what had happened to James.  He looked at his watch. “I better start getting ready or I’ll be late.”  He glanced up at Sherlock, and saw his pondering expression.  “Thanks for listening, Sherlock.  I hadn’t even told my therapist about all that.”

Sherlock gave him a rueful smile.  “It seems somehow that pretending to be in a relationship has caused us to be more real with each other than we ever have before.  Normally I wouldn’t go for such heart to hearts,” he made a fluttery gesture and half rolled his eyes, “but with you it’s different.  I actually _want_ to know you more.”

John felt like his heart was bursting.  Striving for a steady voice, he said, “I want to know you more, too.”  With a short nod, he headed for the bathroom.

*

Despite Sherlock’s theory that the killer wasn’t likely to strike until after the second day, John kept a watchful eye out.  He had no idea if the man would be so bold as to come into the clinic pretending to be a patient, but he wasn’t taking any chances.  The tension he felt from waiting for the shoe to drop made a stressful day even worse.  Sarah had warned him the holidays were like this, with lots of cold and flu patients, strange injuries, and people who were grumpier than usual about being sick because they wanted to be out being festive.    

The grumpiness was rubbing off on him, and it was with profound relief that he left work and got on the tube to go home.  But he wasn’t going home, was he?  Back to the hotel.  Christ, he was sick of it.  He just wanted his cozy chair and a cup of tea in his medical corps mug and Sherlock playing his violin as he worked out some puzzle.  Instead he would be in the same kind of impersonal hotel room that he spent all last week in.  Except this time, he and Sherlock would be stuck with each other.  No place to retreat. 

And boy did he feel like retreating whenever he thought of the way he spilled his guts that morning.  It had been too easy to open up while still soft from sleep, the intimacy of being in the same bed encouraging the words to flow.  Despite Sherlock’s assurance that he welcomed this new openness, John couldn’t help but feel vulnerable.

John texted Sherlock asking what they should do about dinner.  When he got a response that he was at St. Bart’s and would have a bag of crisps, John felt relief.  He wasn’t up for putting on a show in a restaurant.  John wondered if Sherlock had known that and was intentionally giving him a night off. 

John got a sandwich and chips from a street market and ate in the hotel room while watching telly.  It felt depressingly similar to his nights in Edinburgh, and now he found himself wishing that he and Sherlock had gone out after all.  Balling up his napkin, he chucked it hard into the waste bin.  A sure sign of fatigue was when he became contrary even with himself.  He took a shower and then got into bed. 

Just when John was nodding off, Sherlock came into the room.  He flipped on the overhead light, then paused when he saw John in bed.  “Oh, sorry.  Didn’t realise you’d be in bed this early.  Tough day at the clinic, I see.”

John sat up, happier to see Sherlock than he cared to admit.  “Yeah, it was a bloody nightmare.  I’m not really that tired, just worn out.  What were you doing at St. Bart’s?”

Sherlock launched into a story about an e-mail he got earlier from a man claiming his wife was keeping something sinister from him because she refused to explain the odd marks left on the bathroom sink.  He’d even sent pictures.  Sherlock had a few theories and went to the lab.  John watched as Sherlock got undressed while he went on and on about chemical reactions and beauty products.  The previous night he’d gone into the bathroom to change, but apparently he was too caught up in his tale to do so. 

John went red as Sherlock stripped until he was down to his black silk boxers, then finally put on his dressing gown (though he didn’t tie it closed).  “So anyway, it was the typical tedious outcome.  Some sort of homemade tanning dye that the wife got off the internet because her husband was complaining about the cost of tanning salons.  The irony is that his wife could have had a dozen tanning sessions for the fee I charged him.” 

John chuckled as Sherlock went over to the house phone and dialed housekeeping.  “Yes, we are in need of more towels.  Four large ones.  Thank you.”  He hung up.  John gave him an inquisitive look.  “I thought this might be another opportunity to give housekeeping an eyeful.”  He put his hands on his hips, spreading the lapels of the dressing gown to emphasise his bare chest, and John had to fight to keep his face impassive.  Sherlock winked, then dropped the pose to go brush his teeth.  John let out his breath.  That explained why Sherlock didn’t get into his typical t-shirt and pajama bottoms. 

In a few minutes there was a knock on the door.  Sherlock came out of the bathroom.  He waved a hand at John.  “Try to look like we’ve been up to something.”

Thinking quickly, John pulled off his vest, allowing it to muss his hair as it slid over his head.  He quickly tossed it over to his open suitcase, then grabbed his mobile and pretended to be typing something as Sherlock opened the door wide enough so the housekeeper could clearly see into the room.  “Your towels, sir.”

Sherlock took them from her.  “Thank you.”

She smiled politely.  “Will you be needing anything else, sir?”

Sherlock adopted a contemplative look.  “Umm, don’t think so.  John?”

When the housekeeper looked his way, John furrowed his brow and scratched his chest absently.  “Mmm, I think I’m good.”

Sherlock smirked.  “That you are, John.”  He turned back to the housekeeper.  “That’ll be all, thank you.”

She nodded politely and walked away as Sherlock closed the door.  They both giggled.  Sherlock pointed towards John’s chest.  “That was a nice touch,” and they giggled some more.  John couldn’t help the big stupid grin on his face.  Sherlock had the most infectious laugh.  Or maybe it’s because he only laughed this way with John and it made him feel good.

Sherlock grabbed his laptop and flopped down on the bed.  “Will it bother you if I’m on this while you’re trying to sleep?”

John shook his head.  He could sleep through anything, so the laptop wouldn’t be a distraction.  It was the _lap_ it was resting on that was the problem.  Sherlock was stretched out next to him, his ridiculously long legs bare and quite fit.  John never had an up-close look at them, all pale skin stretched over taut muscle.  Just like his back.  Bloody hell, couldn’t he put them away under the covers?  The dressing gown didn’t cover the legs at all, but at least Sherlock had tucked it closed over his briefs as a barrier against the heat of the laptop.

John turned away from the spectacle, tucking under the duvet a little more and nestling his head against the pillow.  He closed his eye and concentrated on relaxing.  When his cock wasn’t taking over his brain, he found that he rather liked this quiet domesticity.  The soft tapping of the laptop keyboard, the warm, solid body inches from his back.  He burrowed further under the covers and heaved a contented sigh.  “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

He smiled at the murmured, “Goodnight, John.” 

*

Sherlock practically purred when he woke up and realised that John was behind him, curved around his back.  This was apparently the spooning thing that coupled people liked to yammer on about.  John was being the big spoon. 

Sherlock was glad that he’d disposed of his dressing gown before going to sleep.  John had forgotten to put back on his vest, so now their bare skin was pressed together.  Sherlock committed as much of it to his mind palace as he could, knowing that John would probably wake soon.  There was something else pressed against him, too.  Sherlock reveled in the feel of John’s cock nestled between his arse cheeks.  He almost wished he was wearing his butt plug.  Sherlock shivered at the thought of John nudging it in his sleep.

The conversation they had yesterday morning stayed obsessively in his head the entire day.  Sherlock had felt an odd mix of curiosity and jealousy to hear more details about John’s sexual experiences with another man.  He couldn’t get over that John had been dumped by this idiot, whoever he was.  Sherlock was tempted to try and find out his name.  Mycroft could get that information easily.  But the idea of trying to explain to his brother why he wanted it put that thought out of his head. 

Instead he concentrated on the other information he’d learned from John.  Namely that John really wanted to experience penetrative sex as a receiver.  Sherlock spent a lot of time thinking about it, not content with John’s explanation that he heard it “feels really good.”  Sherlock finally concluded that it had to do with the fact that John was a caretaker.  He spent all his life caring for other people.  Sherlock had cobbled together from John’s passing remarks and his own deductions that he cared for his mum when his dad died, and cared for Harry when she had her issues with coming out and then alcoholism.  He took care of Sherlock all the time.  So, it was obvious that John was intrigued by the idea of bottoming, because for once it would be someone taking care of _him_.  He was a hopeless romantic, as evidenced by his blog.  He wanted to be loved and cherished and Sherlock was realizing to his great alarm, that he desperately wanted to give him that. 

Mycroft said that sex alarmed him, but really it was the whole concept of giving and taking love physically and emotionally.  There were plenty of guides on the internet that explain how to perform anal sex.  But nothing that explains how to make one feel cherished.  He’d like to try, though.  John deserved it.  And if Sherlock was brutally honest with himself, he wanted to be cherished as well.  He wanted John in every way, to consume him and be consumed by him. 

John shifted slightly in his sleep, tightening his arm around Sherlock, nuzzling his nose against the back of his neck.  He sighed, and the puff of air raised goosebumps.  Sherlock’s cock stirred and he bit his lip in consternation.  He lectured himself that the only reason they were in this bed was for a case.  John was only agreeing to make it look like they were lovers.  And the only reason John had an erection was because it was typical physiological occurrence with most healthy males, exacerbated by the presence of a warm body.

Sherlock knew he crossed the line of propriety a lot.  Some would say that actively fantasising about his flatmate and friend as he wanked to a prostate stimulator was over the line, but he didn’t agree.  Allowing himself to feel sexual gratification from John’s erection while he was asleep _was_ definitely over the line.  Sherlock finished committing the delicious sensation to his mind palace, then reluctantly thought of ways to disentangle himself from John without waking him up.  He was concerned that John would be mortified by his erection, and decide to get another room for their last two nights.

Trying out a possibility, he lifted his head an inch off the pillow and shook his head slightly, hoping that his hair would ruffle against John’s face.  Sure enough, John grunted and rubbed at his face with the hand that had been draped across his torso.  Sherlock gingerly eased off the bed and stood up.  He looked down at John, who was still sleepily rubbing at his nose.  When John was finished, he put his hand back down where Sherlock had been.  He frowned when his hand hit the mattress.  He lifted it and reached out further.  Sherlock quickly grabbed his pillow and shoved it under John’s outstretched arm.  John grabbed it and hugged it to him.  Sherlock felt oddly piqued that John found a pillow to be an acceptable replacement for him. He wanted to rip it away from him and put himself back where he’d been.  Shaking his head at his ridiculous sentiment, he went into the bathroom to shower and have a good wank.

The rest of the day was tedious.  John was at the clinic again, and Lestrade didn’t have any cases for him.  All the e-mail requests were rubbish.  He ended up spending most of the morning writing up his notes on an experiment he had run while John was away, and then bugging a harried Molly at St. Bart’s.  At one point she asked him what he and John were doing for Christmas.  He assumed they’d be spending it at Baker Street. 

He reluctantly mentioned to her that Mrs. Hudson was forcing them to have a Christmas Eve drinks thing for their “friends.”   When Molly gave him a hopeful look, he ignored her, remembering what John said about not giving her false hope.  At that moment, an interesting body came into the morgue and Molly told him he had to leave.  Ignoring John’s voice in his head, he told her the time of the party and said he’d love her to stop by.  After that he got to stay.    

By the time he got back to the hotel, he’d forgotten that John might be exhausted from another day of being inundated by patients.  But when John came in, he looked fine.  “Not a bad day?”

John smiled ruefully.  “I ended up getting old patients who spent a lot of time just talking to me because they were lonely.  So, my patient count was lower than anyone else’s, and not as stressful.”  He shrugged. “Should we go out tonight?  The killer has to know we’re here by now.”

Sherlock agreed, and after John showered and changed, they headed out to their favourite Indian place.  As they talked about their day, Sherlock sheepishly confessed that Molly would be coming to the drinks thing.  To his surprise, John wasn’t irritated with him. “I think that’s nice.  Who knows, maybe she’ll hook up with Lestrade and he’ll forget about trying to make things up with his cheating wife.  He deserves better.”

Sherlock frowned at this.  “Molly and Gavin?  No.  I have a feeling about him…”  He stopped himself.  The last thing he wanted to do was discuss his theory that Lestrade was interested in his brother.  It would kill what little appetite he had.  “Dimmock would be a good fit for Molly, but I’m not inviting him to the drinks thing.”

John scowled.  “Hold on.  What’s that about Greg?  You have a feeling about him?  What does that mean?”  He looked agitated, and Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. 

“I’d really rather not go into it,” he said feelingly.

The corners of John’s mouth turned down.  He leaned back in his seat, fiddling with his slice of naan.  “Is it you?”

Sherlock, about to dip his naan in some raita, paused.  “What?”

John cleared his throat.  “When Greg let slip that there was a man he was interested in, was it you he was talking about?”

Sherlock stared at him.  John looked really, really put out.  “Um, _no_.  Not at all.  What gave you that idea?”

John let out a breath.  He shook his head and waved his hand.  “Nothing.  Forget it.”  He looked away. 

That was clearly a lie, and Sherlock wanted to probe further, but this was not the time.  They were supposed to be putting on a show.  “John,” he said in a low voice, and leaned forward.  “If you really insist, I’ll tell you who it is.”

John leaned forward to hear him.  “It doesn’t matter.  I only car…um, was curious if it was you.  It was an easy deduction to make since you seemed so agitated about it.”

Sherlock smirked and leaned closer.  “I was agitated because I think the man he’s interested in is my brother.”

John’s eyes widened and he leaned in even closer.  If the table had been slightly smaller, their noses would be touching.  “ _No_.  Mycroft?!”  He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Sherlock snorted out a laugh.  He sat upright again.  “Now you see why I didn’t want to talk about it?  My appetite is completely gone, now.”  John sat upright as well and giggled.  The waiter appeared and set down their mains.  As the fragrant smell of chicken korma wafted up, he smiled dreamily.  “Never mind, it’s back.”  John laughed harder, as they prepared to tuck in their food.

After swallowing a bite of his lamb curry, John asked what they’d been talking about before they got put off by Lestrade terrible taste in men.  Sherlock took a sip of water.  “Christmas.  Molly asked what we were doing and I told her I figured we’d just stay in.”

John gave him a regretful look.  “Sorry, I’m going to Harry’s for Christmas.”

Sherlock stared at him.  “What?”

John shrugged.  “She promised she’s off the sauce.  I’m trying to be a good brother.  Spirit of the holidays.”

Before this moment, if anyone had asked Sherlock if he gave a fig for Christmas or the concept of spending the day with loved ones, he would have had something quite scathing to say on the matter.  But now, he actually had someone he loved and wanted to spend the day with.  And he was being denied it.  Protests formed on his lips, but he couldn’t think of what he could say that wouldn’t annoy John at best or royally piss him off at worst.  Trying to remember, _again_ , that they were putting on a lovey dovey act for the killer, Sherlock pasted on a smile.  “Well, I hope that it works out.  And you have a pleasant time.”

John gave him a look that said he highly doubted that Sherlock believed a word of what he said.  “That was very nice of you to say, Sherlock.  Even though I know you think Christmas is rubbish.”

Sherlock gave him a wan smile.  He didn’t say out loud that he hardly had a reason to think otherwise since he’d be _all by himself_.  He took a bite of his korma, but his appetite had truly died this time.

*

John’s eyes snapped open as he heard Sherlock breath his name into his ear.  “ _John_.”  He blinked for a moment, then took stock of the situation.  He was on his back and Sherlock was curled into his side.  His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed.  “John, _please_.” 

Concern shot through him.  “What do you need, Sherlock?”

Sherlock buried his face into John’s shoulder.  His voice was slurred as he said, “Give me…another chance.”  His breath hitched, and in a regretful tone he continued, “I shouldn’t have said that.”

John realised Sherlock was talking in his sleep.  He once had a girlfriend that did that.  Sounded quite lucid, and had no memory of it in the morning.  Softly, he asked, “What was it you said?”  Sherlock didn’t say anything for a while.  “Sherlock?”

Finally, he mumbled, “I’m not really married to my work.”

John felt as if heat were spiking into every nerve ending in his body.  Was he…was Sherlock really admitting that he wished he hadn’t shut him down that first night at Angelo’s?  Holy _shit_.

He gazed at Sherlock, dumbfounded by this revelation.  He watched as frustration etched into every crease of Sherlock’s face.  “I wish you’d ask again,” he murmured, then shifted onto his back.  John realised that the duvet had been kicked down the bed, and got an eyeful of the erection that was straining against Sherlock’s pajamas.  “ _Please._ ”  His face crumpled and then he turned again, facing away from John. 

John had a bit of trouble breathing, feeling as if all the air had left his lungs.  Sherlock wanted him.  And maybe he wanted to _be_ with him.  He reached out his hand to Sherlock’s back, flinching when his mobile alarm went off.  _Damn_ it!  He quickly turned it off, rubbing his face in frustration.  He hadn’t even noticed that it was morning, with the heavy hotel curtains obscuring the sunrise.  It was the day before Christmas Eve.  One more bloody shift at the clinic and then he’d have some time off for the holiday.

Sherlock didn’t wake up as John got out of bed, and it was just as well.  He needed to think about what just happened, whether it really was what he thought it was.  As he got ready for work, he couldn’t help but feel thrilled that Sherlock found him attractive.  It appeared he was demisexual after all – he turned John down when they just met, but wished later that he hadn’t.  And perhaps all the kissing and the sex shop has had Sherlock thinking about it more than he might usually.  But did it mean that he just wanted to have sex with John, or did he want something more? 

John finished getting ready and headed out.  On his way to the tube, he decided that he definitely shouldn’t mention what Sherlock said in his sleep.  No one liked to hear that they said something so personal while unconscious, it might make his walls go up.  They definitely needed to talk, though.  Maybe John would approach it by saying that ever since Sherlock shared some of his history, and all the kissing they’ve done, he wondered if Sherlock would reconsider the whole married to his work thing.  John’s face went hot at the thought.  He would not be able to have the courage to say such a thing if he hadn’t witnessed what he did this morning.  The only thing left to ponder now was to figure out what he would do if Sherlock was interested in sex but not romance.  John wanted the romance, for sure.  Could he settle for anything less than that?  Friends with benefits.  John grimaced. 

It was only after John was settled into a tube seat that he realised he hadn’t once kept an eye out for the killer since he left the hotel room.  He was chilled to the bone by this realisation. He’d been so wrapped up in thoughts of Sherlock that he’d left himself vulnerable to an attack.  He fought to stay calm as his eyes darted around to all the other passengers.  He relaxed a little when he saw that no one seemed remotely like the man who’d been tailing them.

John resolved to be more focused on situational awareness, put aside his thoughts about Sherlock.  In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realised it would be a really bad idea for them to talk about their feelings tonight.  They were at the most critical point in this case that has been going on for two months now.  They had to be on their guard, and they couldn’t afford to be distracted by any possible new development in their relationship. 

There was nothing for it.  He would have to wait until after they caught the killer before having his heart to heart with Sherlock.  Once that arsehole was behind bars, then they could concentrate on them.  John allowed himself a small smile.  The sooner this guy acted, the better.  John wanted to ring in the new year with Sherlock by his side.


	6. Chapter 6

When John got out of the clinic that evening, he went to St. Bart’s.  From texts Sherlock sent him, he had spent the day there researching a thumb that Mycroft had delivered.  John was a little amused by the fact that Sherlock could never resist severed body parts, even when they were from his brother (hopefully not literally from him).  Apparently, Sherlock and Molly had gone over the thumb in detail and were waiting for the results of various analyses.

When John walked into the lab and saw Sherlock, all he wanted to do was pull him away from Molly and into a cupboard or something and snog the hell out of him.  Get it together, Watson!  The life of the man he loved was at stake, and he was _not_ going to be distracted by his hormones. It was difficult, though.  Knowing now that Sherlock wanted him amplified his visceral reactions to the man.  He found himself staring at Sherlock’s hands the most.

When Molly left to go check on something, John asked, “Seen anyone suspicious lurking around today?”

Sherlock shook his head.  “We didn’t see him last night, either.”  He gave an annoyed huff.

John drummed his fingers on the counter.  “It could be that he’s got better at hiding.  We should definitely spend some time out and about tonight.  Go for a long walk in Regent’s Park.  Great place for a murder.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful.  “The idea has merit.  I had been wondering if he’s waiting for us to get back to 221B.  That would be the most ideal place to murder us.  It’s certainly what I would choose.  But the killer isn’t very clever.  He seems more the type to be ruled by his violent urges.  In which case, seeing us at the park, he may act on impulse.  It’s a plan.”

 

When they took the taxi back to the hotel, they decided to get a something portable for dinner from a street market, and ate while they were walking around.  They kept their eyes out for someone suspect, but the killer either wasn’t there or concealed himself well.  At one point, John noticed that Sherlock had mustard on the corner of his mouth and he stopped.  “Hold on, you’ve got a bit of something there.”  He took off his glove and wiped it away, then put his finger in his mouth to lick it off since he’d already thrown away his napkin.  Sherlock stared, and John shivered a little.  He put his glove back on.  

Sherlock blinked, his brow furrowed.  “Why did you do that?  If the killer were following us, we would have seen him by now.”

John smiled.  “I guess I’ve got into the habit of flirting with you.  You don’t mind, do you?”

Sherlock looked away and murmured, “Why would I mind?”

John wanted to kiss him right then and there.  It would be a mistake, though.  He would become lost in the moment and that was incredibly dangerous.  He blew out a sigh of frustration.  “This isn’t working.  Maybe he _is_ waiting till we get back to 221B.  I really hope it isn’t because he’s off stalking one of the other couples.  Or has found a new couple.”

Sherlock shook his head.  “It wouldn’t be a new couple.  I’ve been checking up on all the local news and gossip, and there hasn’t been any new fodder for him.  The last I heard about the other couple, they’re both in America now for the holidays.”

John nodded.  “Okay, that’s something, then.  Well, it’s bloody cold out here.  Let’s go back to the hotel.  One more night.  I am so ready to get back home.”

Sherlock nodded. “Agreed.”  They turned and started back in the direction of the hotel.  “You know, if it’s true that he’s waiting till we get back to 221B, it would be better if you stuck around for Christmas Day.  It’s the perfect time for him to strike.  Mrs. Hudson will be at her sister’s and so it would be just the two of us.”

John liked the sound of “just the two of us.”  But he really wanted to go see Harry.  Partly because she was counting on him to be there.  And partly because he wanted to have a long talk with her.  Tell her about his feelings for Sherlock.  She deserved to be the first to know.  “I understand your reasoning.  And you’re right.  I just…I can’t let Harry down.  I’ll be back for Boxing Day.  The killer can get his chance then.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “ _Fine_.”

John frowned. “Do you have family other than your brother?  Parents?”

Sherlock waved his hand.  “John, you know me better than that.  Why would I care about spending Christmas with family when it’s a meaningless holiday?  I’m not a Christian, and I’m not sentimental.”

John gave a short nod, and felt a little less guilty about leaving Sherlock alone. 

 

The rest of the evening went without incident.  Sherlock was very taciturn, bordering on sulky.  John couldn’t blame him.  All the work they’ve done with the case and it wasn’t paying off.  It wasn’t enough to nettle the guy into sending letters.  They needed for him to actually make an attempt on their lives.  Sherlock spent the rest of the evening on his laptop. 

When John woke up the next morning, Sherlock was already dressed and packing his suitcase.  John was a little disappointed.  He’d been hoping for one last sleepy cuddle.  Well, hopefully once the case was sorted they could start a new phase of their life where perhaps they wake up together all the time.

When John had showered and dressed, he came out of the bathroom and checked his mobile.  He saw that he had an e-mail notification.  He didn’t recognise the sender.  The subject line read, “This is your last chance.”

“Sherlock.”  John held up the screen to him.  “Do you think that’s him?”

Sherlock froze in his packing, staring at the phone.  “Possibly.  It would be a huge departure for him.  Don’t open it, in case of a virus.  We’ll go to Scotland Yard right away and have them open it.”

They hurriedly finished packing and checked out of the hotel.  They stopped off at 221B to put their luggage in the hall, then were back in the taxi.  Sherlock had his fingers pressed together, his expression pensive.  “ _Why_ is he giving us another chance?  He didn’t do that for Pringle, and our offenses have been more blatant.  And why e-mail?  I can only conclude that he’s not in town right now to be able to deliver it.  And he can’t post it from where he is because then we’d know.”

John tapped the leg of his trousers.  “I’m going to feel really stupid if they open this up and it’s just an advert about Christmas shopping.”

Sherlock smirked.  “No, the sending address would have a shop name or something.  This is definitely the killer.  I can feel it.”

Lestrade met them at the Yard and they went to see one of the IT experts.  They had John log into his e-mail account on a computer that was designated for such things and finally opened the message.  It was as they suspected – it was from the killer.  He ranted about how he knew all about their hotel room and it was obvious what they were doing.  He went on about how he had hoped they would listen to them, because John was a soldier and he was dishonoring his service to the country.  The killer said that he was off spending time with his family for the holidays, the way the people were meant to do, and John had one last chance to do the right thing for Queen and country – break up with Sherlock and go find a nice girl to marry.  The killer was going to be back in London after New Year’s, and he expected them to make it clear in some way publicly that they are no longer together. 

Lestrade frowned at the screen.  “He wants you to _publicly_ break up?  How?  On your blog or something?  Make a press announcement?  It doesn’t make sense – you were never publicly together, why would you publicly break up?”

Sherlock’s brow was furrowed as he contemplated the message.  “Perhaps it is meant to be like a confession.  Tell everyone that we _were_ together, but we’ve repented of our ways.”

John was severely frustrated.  And angry.  It was the third time getting such a letter, but the venom still got to him.  Made him feel cold inside with his hateful judgment.  And his audacity to try and dictate their lives with threats.  Clenching his fists, he ground out, “So now we have to wait another _week_ to get this wanker?  I’m so bloody over it.”  He started pacing.  “I just wanted to get on with my life.  Stop pretending…”  He broke off, not wanting to say what he was really thinking – that he wanted their relationship to be real. 

He chanced a glance at Sherlock, whose expression was now stormy.  “You’re not the only one, _John_.  This whole charade of pretending to be in _love_ with you has become quite tiresome.”  He stood up and swept out of the room.

John winced.  He couldn’t mean that for real, could he?  He only meant the charade was tiresome, right?  John looked over at Lestrade, whose eyebrows were up to his hairline.  “Do you need us anymore right now?”

Greg shook his head.  “We’ll see what we can get off the e-mail and IP address, we might get lucky if he’s not internet savvy.  I’ll see you tonight, then?”

John nodded.  “Yep, glad you can make it after all.”  He rushed out of the room.  Sherlock was nowhere in sight.  When he got out of the building, there was still no sign of him.  John heaved a sigh.  He couldn’t be wrong that Sherlock felt something for him.  He’d pretty much said it in his bloody sleep.  He probably thought John was dismissing him with his comment about getting on with his life.  Christ. 

John took the tube back to Baker Street.  Now that he had time to calm down a little, he realised that maybe the killer being out of town for so long would work in his favour.  When he came back from visiting Harry, he could talk with Sherlock then, and if he really were amenable to taking their friendship to the next level, they’d have almost a whole week of being absorbed with each other.  By New Year’s Day, they’d be able to focus on the killer.

Having settled it in his mind, he felt much better and hopeful when he got back to the 221B.  John noticed that both their suitcases were where they’d been left.  He took them up to the flat and set his down next to the stairs going up to his room.  He went into the flat and looked around.  The kitchen hadn’t changed much – some of the cabinet doors had been replaced.  Mrs. Hudson did say most of the work would be related to plumbing and some structural repairs. 

There was no sign of Sherlock.  His bedroom door was open.  John carried Sherlock’s suitcase down the hall.  “Sherlock?”  He wasn’t there.  John set the suitcase down inside the room.  He hoped that Sherlock would be back in time for their little shindig tonight.  

He took his suitcase up to his room and gazed fondly at his bed.  He didn’t want to see another hotel room for a good while.

*

When Sherlock got back to the flat, he saw that Mrs. Hudson was already puttering around their kitchen.  There were mince pies on the table and she was mixing a punch with an obscene amount of alcohol.  She looked up and beamed at him.  “It’s good to see you back home, dear.  I was wondering if you were going to make it to your own party!”

He gave her a wan smile.  The last thing he wanted to do was drink and fake merriment in front of anyone, least of all John.  He went back to his room and began stripping off his clothes for a shower.  He’d just spent most of the afternoon walking the streets of London.  He’d been more hurt than he cared to admit by John’s remark about wanting to get on with his life.  It just added to the funk he was already in over the fact that, after four days of sleeping together, they’d be back to separate beds.  He was also greatly put out that John was going to leave him for Christmas.  He’d never cared about Christmas before, but then John waltzed into his life and now he did care.  Too much.  And clearly John didn’t care at all. 

Sherlock got into the shower and let the hot water sluice over his head, weighing down his curls.  Why had he ever agreed to take this case?  Granted it was very intriguing on a professional level.  Also, it seemed like an opportunity to do things with John that he otherwise wouldn’t get to do – kissing, flirting, sharing a bed.  He now realised that it had only made him understand better what he would be missing when the case ended. 

Sherlock left the shower and began getting dressed.  The thought of them going back to normal once the killer was caught was absolutely hateful.  He couldn’t even savour this last week of the charade because with the killer out of town, there was no one to play to.  Sherlock touched his lip where John had brushed mustard off him last night.  He had wanted to be hopeful that it meant something, given they had determined they weren’t being followed.  That was why he made one last play for John to stay home for Christmas.  It was Sherlock’s understanding that people spent the day with those they cared about the most.  But John chose his semi-estranged sister over him.  That along with his remarks today, and Sherlock knew he’d been fooling himself.  He looked in the mirror and saw in the reflection his dread of the evening to come. 

 

Sherlock closed his eyes as he played We Wish You A Merry Christmas.  He’d missed playing his violin while they were at the hotel.  He would much rather be composing, but Mrs. Hudson requested that he play something festive.  Sherlock glanced at John and had a wild urge to play Blue Christmas, but he knew that would be tipping his hand.

Molly arrived, and Sherlock had to endure the tedium of merry greetings.  He was irritated further when she took off her coat to reveal her tight dress.  John’s reaction was, in his opinion, much stronger than was warranted.  He couldn’t bear it if John were to ask her out.  To distract himself, Sherlock logged onto John’s blog.  He usually looked at it on his mobile, which didn’t have the counter displayed prominently, so it was a bit startling to see it stand out in big numbers.  1895.  The same number from months ago.  He pointed it out to John, then was exasperated to note that John had put up a picture of him in the stupid ear hat.  Sherlock rather thought his hair was his greatest physical asset, and it was being obscured by the damn hat.

Molly began to make truly awful small talk with the other guests, and he’d almost managed to tune her out.  But then she brought up John going to Harry’s.  Sherlock shot her a furious look when she told John he’d been _complaining_ about it.  This apparently was his reward for trying to be civil to her while they analyzed Mycroft’s stupid thumb (too bad it hadn’t been his literal thumb).  Seeing his look, Molly quickly corrected herself, but it was too late.  Before she said anything else incriminating, he decided to turn the focus on her own plans for Christmas, which clearly involved romantic intentions. 

It backfired when he saw that the intentions had been towards himself.  John _had_ warned him about this, damn the man.  Molly may be annoying, but she was a valuable asset to his work.  He apologised with a kiss on her cheek.  Irene Adler chose that moment to send a text, the ringtone getting the usual puritanical reaction from everyone.  He’d forgotten that he turned his ringer back up since the killer was going to be gone for a week. 

Sherlock intended to ignore the text, but then John asked him just how often she texts him in a tone that sounded too much like jealousy.  Anger sparked through Sherlock.  John had no call for that tone, not if he wasn’t interested himself.  Sherlock plucked his mobile out of his pocket and made a show of silently reading the text in front of everyone.  He expecting it to be her typical flirting or even just a holiday greeting.  Instead it simply said, “Mantlepiece.”

Sherlock went over to the fireplace.  There was a small box sitting on the mantlepiece.  It was red and tied with a black cord.  He picked it up.  He vaguely heard John behind him ask, “Do you ever reply?”  Same tone as before.  John could be such an idiot sometimes.  Of _course_ he wasn’t going to reply to her.  But he also wasn’t going to block her.  Sherlock still considered that camera phone an open case, despite his brother’s insistence that it wasn’t.  John knew very well that he hated failure.  And yet he seemed to think that Sherlock had a personal interest in Irene.

He frowned at the box.  Speaking of her camera phone…it was just the right size.  “Excuse me,” he murmured as he headed to his room with the box.

“What’s up, Sherlock?”  John’s tone had changed to concern.

Still feeling recalcitrant, Sherlock snapped, “I said excuse me,” as he went down the hall.  John must have gotten the message, because he didn’t follow.

Sherlock sat on the bed and opened the box.  It was as he thought.  The camera phone.  With a sinking feeling, he realised there could only be one reason why she sent it to him.  Her life was in grave danger and she didn’t want the phone falling into the wrong hands.

Sherlock took out his mobile and dialed Mycroft’s number.  When his brother answered with his typical snide remark, Sherlock told him about Irene’s imminent death. 

Sherlock only realised his door was still partly opened when John hovered halfway through it.  “You okay?”

He didn’t want to discuss Irene with John.  He was still too angry with him, and too disappointed with Irene, to get into it.  He tersely replied, “Yes,” and then shut the door.  

He sat back down on his bed, thinking about Irene.  Why didn’t she come to him sooner?  She was well aware of his talents, and his line of work was after all to _help_ people.  She was so clever, a worthy opponent.  What a waste.  This was not how he’d wanted to obtain the camera phone. 

He supposed that it was a good thing he’d apologised to Molly. He would need her connections to alert him if someone matching Irene’s description was found dead.

*

Sherlock walked out of the morgue with Mycroft, his mood now completely sour.  John had wanted to come with him to identify the body, but Sherlock coldly suggested that he get some sleep so he’d be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to go visit his sister.  It seemed as if everything was primed to vex him tonight.  The festiveness of the holiday.  John’s odd behavior.  Irene’s senseless death.  And of course any time he was forced to endure his brother’s company. 

Mycroft offered him a cigarette, pretending that it was an indulgence for the holiday.  Sherlock knew the truth.  His brother apparently labored under the same delusion as John that he had a thing for Irene.  He was testing to see if this would be a danger night.  _Idiots_.  Sherlock took the cigarette out of spite. 

Mycroft asked him how he knew Irene would be dead.  Sherlock told him that she sent him something that she had guarded with her life, deliberately vague as to what it was.  When Mycroft probed further, Sherlock deflected his attention to a family crying over someone else who had been brought to the morgue.  “Look at them. They all care so much.”  Sherlock adopted a detached tone, as Mycroft  expected it of him. 

Sherlock wondered if this was why John didn’t want him.  Whatever sexual interest John had shown him initially, clearly finding out more about Sherlock’s personality had put him off.  Sherlock remembered the disappointment in his eyes during Moriarty’s game.  John still saw him as brilliant, but not someone he’d want to be with romantically.  “Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”

Mycroft gave him his usual spiel about caring not being an advantage.  Sherlock had heard it all before.  He supposed if he had truly taken it to heart, he wouldn’t be in his current situation.  If he was as smart as he claimed to be, he would excise John from his heart.  He was suddenly reminded of Moriarty’s threat to burn the heart out of him, which at the time seemed absurd.  Now, months later he understood.  Hadn’t he already hinted at it by kidnapping John in the first place?  The next time, it would be much worse. 

Sherlock left the morgue, knowing that as soon as the door swung shut behind him, Mycroft would be on the phone to John. 

*

John tried to change his Christmas Day plans and spend it with Sherlock, per Mycroft’s urgings.  But Sherlock went into a complete strop and demanded that he go to Harry’s as he didn’t need a bloody minder.  John tried to insist, but Sherlock threatened to go to one of his bolt holes.  John knew this would be worse than if Sherlock stayed home alone.  If Sherlock was determined to take drugs, better it was some place he could be found.  With great reluctance, John set out for Harry’s.

John had planned to spend their time together telling her about his hopes for a new phase in his relationship with Sherlock.  Instead, he poured out his anguish over the whole Irene mess.  Hearing her ringtone during the party had him remembering that she’s been texting Sherlock for months, and he had no idea how often because for most of it Sherlock’s ringer had been off.  And he had no idea if Sherlock was replying.  He tried to find out, but Sherlock shut him down.  The fact that he wouldn’t tell John anything, wouldn’t even let him go with him to the morgue, made it clear that Irene was no longer a case for him.  This was personal. 

John didn’t understand it.  Sherlock was gay, not bisexual, so how could he be in love with Irene?  He asked Harry if she had ever found herself drawn to a man, even on an intellectual level.  Harry laughed.  “Not even remotely, Johnny!  Believe me, I tried.  My life would have been a lot easier.  Look, it’s possible that Sherlock’s closer to the bi end of the spectrum and just never realised it because no woman has ever…you know, _got him going_.  I mean, from what you’ve said before, he tends to close off that part of himself anyway...”

Curiosity got the better of her, and Harry went onto Irene’s website.  John clenched his jaw as she clicked through Irene’s gallery, enduring her wolf whistles and other appreciative remarks.  “Bloody hell, Johnny.  No wonder he fell for her.”  She looked over at John, her eyes wide.  “Was she this gorgeous in person?”

John sighed.  “Yes.  And every bit as…dominating as her website implies.”  Harry groaned in delight.  John rolled his eyes.  “Okay, fine.  She’s a knockout.  And clever.  And captivating.”   

Harry’s eyebrows shot up.  “Were you interested in her yourself?”

John scowled.  “ _No_.  I didn’t like the way she played games.  Mucked about in other people’s lives.  But of course Sherlock would find that intriguing.  He was drawn to Moriarty in the same way.”

Harry blew out a gust of air.  “Well, okay.  Let’s go with the possibility that he’s in love with her.  Not to be morbid or anything, but I should point out that it’s no longer an issue.  Give it some time so he can mourn her death, and then ask him out.  If he really is capable of these sorts of feelings, that means you have a shot, right?”

John felt his right hand tremor and reflexively curled his fingers in.  “Not from where I’m standing.  We’ve been living together almost a year now, and he’s never been soppy over me.  He met her _once_ and has since then spent months apparently mooning over her texts.”

Harry scowled.  “You really think he doesn’t feel anything for you at all?”

John rubbed the back of his neck.  “I know he feels some level of emotional connection.  And I guess he feels attracted to me sexually based on what he said in his sleep.  But that doesn’t translate to love.  Maybe he can only fall for someone really clever.”

Harry gave him an exasperated look.  “John, you’re a bloody doctor!”

John laughed and shook his head.  “I don’t mean that sort of clever.  Of course I’m intelligent.  I just don’t play games.  And apparently he likes that.  So…,” he shrugged.

Harry looked thoughtful for a moment.  “You know, the more I think about it, the less I’m convinced he’s in love with her.  You said he was like this with Moriarty.  Maybe he just found her stimulating in the same way, and doesn’t have any physical or romantic desire for her.”  John looked doubtful.  She laughed.  “I mean, it’s easy for us to see her allure, because we’re both attracted to women and see them as romantic prospects.  And I know I said that it’s possible he’s bi.  But given all the facts, isn’t it more likely that he’s gay and just sees her as another puzzle to solve?”

John bit his lip.  “Yeah, you have a good point.  But if that’s true, it just means neither of us stood a chance.  Irene didn’t interest him physically and I don’t interest him intellectually.  If it weren’t for the fact that Moriarty is bloody evil, he’d be the one sweeping Sherlock off his feet.”

Harry ran her fingers through her sandy hair.  “I feel like we could go back and forth on this forever and never know what the hell is going on in that head of his.  There’s only one way to know, John.  _Talk_ to him.”    

 

Talking to Sherlock was easier said than done.  John was relieved when he came back to Baker Street and saw that Sherlock wasn’t high off his tits or suffering withdrawal.  Whatever his feelings for Irene, it hadn’t involved a setback in his drug addiction.

He was still very morose and occasionally sulky, and only spoke in monosyllables.  He seemed to have stopped eating altogether and growled at John if he so much as waved a piece of toast at him.  He was also composing something on his violin that was both beautiful and heartbreaking.  When he wasn’t composing, he was either watching crap telly or locked away in his room. 

Suffice it to say, there was never a good time to bring up something as delicate as feelings.  John figured he’d wait Sherlock out.  He’d been in black moods before.  In fact, none of this behavior was technically out of character for Sherlock.  If Irene hadn’t died, John would have attributed it to the stalling of their case, and not thought anything of it.  John went back to work after Boxing Day.  It helped to get away from Baker Street and the fog of… depression? sulkiness? boredom?    

One evening Lestrade came over and demanded to know what they were going to do about the e-mail.  They would have to do something, attempts to locate the killer via his e-mail address had come up empty.  Sherlock sat in his chair and plucked at his violin.  “I came up with five scenarios, and dismissed all of them.  I’ve had other things on my mind.”

John cleared his throat.  “I’ve been thinking on it, and it seems to me that the best way to get under his skin is to do the opposite of what he wants.  I think Sherlock was right that he wants the public breakup to seem like a remorseful confession.   What if _instead_ we do something public to let people know that we’re together and we’re proud of it.”

Greg’s eyebrows raised.  “What, like an announcement on your blog?  I noticed you haven’t been posting anything.”

John _had_ been tempted to post the events of Christmas Eve, but he figured the killer would like the idea of Sherlock mourning for Irene too much.  Shaking his head, he replied.  “I was thinking something more showy and romantic.  Say we pull some strings to get into a New Year’s Eve party where there’s going to be a lot of press, preferably at least one gossip columnist.  We can go there looking obviously like a couple and then arrange to be near a photographer – someone who knows us – as the clock strikes midnight…”  He made a flourishing gesture with his hand.

Greg grinned.  “And get a picture of you two having a bloody great snog, which then ends up in the papers.”

John pointed a finger.  “Right.  And if anyone asks if we’re together, we’ll look really happy and say we’re tired of hiding it.”

Greg threw up his hands.  “John!  That’s bloody brilliant, mate!  He’ll come after you for sure.”

They both looked over at Sherlock to see what he thought of the idea.  Instead of appearing amenable, he glared at the both of them.  “There’s one little problem with your idea, John.  If we come out to the entire city of London as a couple, that’s going to put a serious damper on your ability to find another girlfriend once the case closes.”

John scowled at him.  Why did Sherlock find it necessary to imply that he was always out trawling for girlfriends?  Was he jealous?  Or just found the whole concept of actively seeking companionship tedious?  “That’s not going to be a problem, Sherlock.  I’m…taking a break from that.”  Sherlock stared at him for a moment, and when it looked like he was going to probe that statement further, John headed him off.  “Do you think my idea will work?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together like it pained him to say it.  “Of course it will.”

Not understanding why Sherlock was looking so put out (unless it was because he hadn’t come up with the idea himself), John pressed, “Do you have any objections to us going forward with this plan?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and plucked the violin.  “Of course I do.  Getting into such an event will undoubtedly require involving Mycroft as the puller of strings.  So that will mean owing him a favour.”  He flicked a glance over at Greg.  “Wouldn’t it be a refreshing change of pace if for once it was someone else that owed him?”

Greg’s eyes widened.  “You want _me_ to ask him to get you into some posh event?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  “It’s _your_ case.”

“He’s _your_ brother.”

They glared at each other.  John, keeping a straight face, remarked, “I’m going to have to agree with Sherlock on this one.  It’s Scotland Yard’s case, you are the one who ultimately benefits from this.  Sherlock is already doing you a massive favour.  It’s not like you aren’t already in contact with Mycroft.”

Greg huffed.  “He’s always the one who contacts me.  Or has me picked up in his bloody car.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to get in touch with him.”

He grimaced.  “But then I’d owe him a favour.  I don’t like the sound of that.”

John chuckled.  “He’s not some sort of mafia don, Greg.  Besides, if we’re keeping score, I’d say he owes you a lot for all the times he’s had you picked up in that bloody car.  It’s time for him to pay up.”

Greg huffed again, rubbing the back of his neck.  “ _Fine_.” 

John smirked and looked over at Sherlock.  His mouth was quirked up as well, but straightened when he caught John looking.  Why is he being such a contrary little shit?  “Then it’s all settled?  We’re going through with this plan?”  As Greg said yes, Sherlock shrugged and rolled his eyes.  “Great.  So Greg, you’ll contact Mycroft and get us in somewhere.”

Greg looked resigned.  “You two will have to get tuxes.”

“I have one,” Sherlock intoned.  Of course he does.  John felt a little thrill at thinking what he’ll look like in it.  Bloody amazing for sure.  Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John.  “Do _not_ get your tux from somewhere like Marks and Spencer, or else no one would believe we’re together.”

John snorted.  “Of course not.  I don’t want to make you look bad, _darling_.”

As soon as Greg left, Sherlock flounced off to his room and slammed the door shut.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mazz06tea6 for a great suggestion for where to host the party.
> 
> This chapter has the most amount of homophobia in it, from the killer. I don't use any slurs, and try to keep it low key.

Sherlock was very angry with himself the next morning when he accompanied John to shop for a tuxedo.  There was absolutely no need for him to go, and every reason not to.  He had thinking to do, composing.  He needed to get into Irene’s mobile, the puzzle of figuring out her passcode the only thing that made him feel like himself.  He was a solver of puzzles and problems, he did not indulge in sentiment.  Or rather he _should_ not indulge in sentiment.   

Ever since he got back from the morgue, he has been trying to get back to where he was emotionally before they moved in together.  John was valuable to his work, so he had no intention of asking him to move out.  But he needed to cease this desire to be with him in every way possible.  Not only would it lead to heartbreak once John inevitably chose someone more suited to him, but it could also lead to John’s death if Moriarty sussed out just how much he meant to Sherlock. 

Sherlock began composing music, using the bow and strings to work through his feelings and hopefully work them out of his heart, imagining them vibrating up and away through the air with the sound waves.  Or perhaps recording the notes onto sheet music would lock his feelings to the paper and he could leave them there.  John thought he was grieving for Irene, but he was grieving the loss of hope that he never should have cultivated in the first place.  Grieving the inevitable loss of closeness as he forced himself to hold John at arm’s length.  He threw as much of his brain function into the task of the passcode as he could, eschewing food and sleep. 

He thought he was making progress, until Lestrade showed up to needle him about the case.  That tiresome case which so effectively stirred all of these feelings to the surface in the first place.  And then John shared his appalling idea that was so _romantic_ , as he put it.  They were going to declare to the bloody world at large that they were together by sharing a passionate kiss for the cameras.  Everyone would know that John was his and that he was loved.  Which was exactly what he wanted, except that it was not even remotely true.   Just more of the farce they’d been playing for weeks, this time on a grander scale. 

The new year promised to be excruciating, with Sherlock trying to bury his feelings while everyone else would be wanting to talk about them.  “Isn’t it marvelous about you and John?”  “You two look wonderful together.”  “I see the way you look at him.”  And they would think nothing of these intrusive remarks because it was a time-honored tradition to gaze indulgently at couples in love like they were in a zoo.

Even more than the aftermath, he dreaded the event itself.  John in a tuxedo, John looking at him adoringly for the benefit of a gossip columnist, John kissing him one last time.  Sherlock already knew from the bed-sharing fiasco that the kiss wouldn’t even be enjoyable.  He’d be too caught up in knowing it was the last he’d ever feel John Watson’s lips on his.  Just like the last time he felt John in his arms when he woke up the morning they checked out of the hotel. 

Sherlock tried to return to his systematic purge of feelings after Lestrade left, but all he could think about was John in a tuxedo and the sheer number of ideas that came to mind of what would suit him.  It would be absolutely _hateful_ if John chose something cheap, ill-fitting, unflattering.  So the next morning, with a possessiveness that he could not overcome, Sherlock went with John to ensure that he chose what Sherlock wanted him to wear.  Unfortunately, John had refused to allow his company unless he ate breakfast first.  Therefore, his stomach was quite content to host the butterflies that commenced as soon as John started trying on tuxes. 

Each suit looked more fantastic than the last, and it was difficult for Sherlock to keep his hands to himself as he wanted to tug, smooth, adjust.  They eventually settled on a classic all black cut with one button, no stripes on the leg, black bow tie, no pocket square and Sherlock insisted that both the jacket and trousers be tailored so they fit like a second skin.  John balked at how much it cost to get tailoring done last minute, but Sherlock’s black glare seemed to shut him up in a way that it usually didn’t.

In fact, John seemed much too pleased with their outing in general.  Sherlock knew it was out of relief, given that John and Mrs. Hudson had been casting him worried and pitying glances ever since Irene’s death.  John looked positively smug that he got him to eat breakfast. 

As soon as they got back to the flat, Sherlock went over to the window to begin composing.  He opened up his laptop and went to John’s blog, to the entry where John talked about how much life was different now than it had been a year ago.  Using the feelings that surfaced, he worked on the notes that he was having trouble with yesterday. 

With one ear he listened to John putting on the kettle.  He had taken the morning off to select the tux, but he would be heading to the clinic soon.  _Good_ , he needed to think.  It was unacceptable that it’s been almost a week and he still hadn’t been able to figure out the passcode on the phone.  John’s laptop password he could figure out in 30 seconds.  Of course, there was an extra layer of pressure to get it right – he knew this sort of mobile gave only a certain number of attempts before locking up.

Sherlock lost himself in the melody for a few minutes, then became aware that John was standing nearby, sipping his tea.  Sherlock paused to make a notation on his sheet music.  John cleared his throat.  “Composing?” 

Stifling a sigh, Sherlock murmured, “Helps me to think.”  He looked over at the laptop again, concentrating on the blog for a moment, then began to play the same passage as before, but with a slight change in tempo.

John was still standing there.  “What are you thinking about?”  His tone sounded tentative, as if he thought he knew the answer and wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it.  Probably thought it was Irene.  It was as if her ghost was in the flat, goading John into heterosexual nonsense. 

Sherlock was about to snap at him, when he glanced at the blog again and paused.  “John, have you reset the blog counter?”  He pointed with his bow.

John frowned.  “What?”  He looked over at the laptop.  “Oh yeah, forgot it was still stuck at 1895.  Dunno how to fix it.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed.  “What if it’s not an error?”  He set down his bow and plucked the camera phone out of his pocket.  He entered 1-8-9-5.  It made a mocking little noise and told him he had 3 more tries.  Grumpily he shoved it back in his pocket.  “No, it’s a bug.”

John gave him a bemused look.  “You’re trying to break into her phone?  Surely it doesn’t matter now.”

Sherlock gave him an affronted look.  “Of course it matters!  It matters a great deal to me.”  He’d have thought John would know better that Sherlock could never resist a puzzle.  “Honestly, you _wound_ me.”

He’d meant it as a little joke, but John looked bereft.  “I’m…I’m so sorry.  Of course, it would be important to you.  That was…insensitive of me.  Look, I gotta go to the clinic.  I’ll see you later.”

John quickly left before Sherlock could correct him that he was talking about the puzzle, not Irene.  Sherlock sighed and went back to composing.

 

The morning of New Year’s Eve, Sherlock managed to resist the temptation to accompany John as he went out to pick up his tux.  They were all set as to where they’d be going that night - some tedious cocktail party at the Liberal Club with a variety of local celebrities.  Based on the location, there would likely be a stunning view of the fireworks over the Thames.  Lestrade had been informed by Mycroft that there would indeed be gossip columnists and photographers.  The stage was once again set, this time for a much bigger audience.

Sherlock spent as much time as possible working on his composition.  He needed the calm it gave him to get him through the evening.  He gazed out the window as he played, observing as John got out of the taxi with his garment bag.  He started to walk to the front door and was waylaid by a beautiful young woman.  Sherlock stopped playing, and watched as the woman smiled beguilingly.  Sherlock made a noise of disgust when he saw John straighten up.  She tilted her head to indicate the street, and at that moment a black car pulled up to the kerb.  John’s shoulders slumped, and he held up the garment bag with one hand and raised his index finger to indicate she should wait. 

Sherlock heard the front door open and then close, and then John was back out on the street without the garment bag.  As they made their way to the car, Sherlock realised two things.  One, John was under the impression that the black car was taking him to Mycroft.  Two, the black car was definitely _not_ taking him to Mycroft.  “John!”  Sherlock scrabbled to open the window, but it was too late, John was getting in the car. 

Sherlock raced down the stairs, snatching his Belstaff from its hook.  He dashed out into the street just as the car pulled away.  Was this the killer?  Sherlock quickly flagged down a taxi and got in.  He promised double the fare if the cabbie successfully kept the black car in view.  Taking a deep breath, he concentrated.  No, it couldn’t be the killer.  He had resources, but he wasn’t _this_ wealthy.  The only other theory that fit the facts was that this was the CIA again.  They likely knew that Sherlock had the camera phone and they wanted it.  They were previously successful in getting Sherlock to cooperate by threatening John, so it stood to reason that they would continue with what they knew worked. 

Yet another reason to distance himself from John.  Moriarty wasn’t the only one capable of getting to Sherlock by using him.  But first thing’s first.  Where were they taking him?  It would need to be a location devoid of people this time of day.  Possibly a building closed for New Year’s Eve, but most places in London had security.  Someplace abandoned more likely.  There would also need to be enough distance from other buildings to muffle the sounds of violence.  Based on their direction, he swiftly began to compile a list of options.  Every turn they made, he recalibrated his list.  Once it was clear they’d be going over the Chelsea Bridge, he knew.  Battersea power station.  Sherlock figured out the best way to approach it so that it wouldn’t be obvious they were pulling up to the same place.  He gave instructions to the cabbie.

 

Sherlock crept along the passage, following the sound of voices.  It had taken him awhile to catch up, having been let off by his taxi at a different entrance.  He finally got close enough to discern what was being said.  John, agitated, was growling, “Tell him you’re alive.”

A female voice said something like, “I can’t.”  Sherlock’s eyes widened.  It sounded like… 

He crept closer.  John’s voice was trembling with fury.  “I’ll tell him, and I still won’t help you.”  Sherlock heard footsteps as John started to come in his direction.  Sherlock ducked behind a pillar. 

“What do I say?”  That was _definitely_ Irene. 

Sherlock heard the scrape of John’s shoes as he turned on his heel, apparently to face her again.  “What do you normally say?  You texted him a _lot_!”

 Sherlock peeked around the pillar and got confirmation.  Irene and John were facing off.  She was smirking as she looked at her mobile.  He couldn’t see John’s face, but his shoulders were hunched, his fists clenched. 

Even as he was bewildered by _how_ she’d been able to fake her death, and _why_ she would do such a thing, Sherlock was also relieved that it wasn’t the CIA.  Not that he liked the idea of Irene abducting John and trying to manipulate him, but much better that the threat was psychological and not life-threatening.

She began to rattle off a few of her inane texts.  With Irene’s eyes on the mobile, Sherlock eased over to another pillar, and this time he was able to see John’s profile.  “You…you’ve been _flirting_ with him this whole time?”

She chuckled.  “ _At_ him.  He never replies.”

John seemed to look bothered by this.  “He always replies.  To everyone and everything.  Always has to have the last word.”  He looked down, upset.  Why did John care whether he replied? 

Irene’s lips curved into a satisfied smile and she purred, “Does that make me special?”  _Oh_.  She started typing something into her phone.

John’s lips tightened, his fist clenched harder.  He lifted his chin.  “It’s more likely because he’s _gay_.  Or hadn’t you figured that out?”

Irene seemed unperturbed.  Her eyebrows lifted.  “Of course I know he’s gay.  So am I.  I told you, brainy is the new sexy.  Here you go, John…”  She held up her phone and read off the screen.  “I’m not dead.  Let’s have dinner.”  She pressed a button.  “Happy?”

John’s expression was anything less than.  “You don’t care about him.  You just want your bloody phone back.”

“Afraid I’ll take him from you?”

John closed his eyes.  “He’s not mine to take.”

She was about to respond, but Sherlock’s mobile went off.  _Blast_!  He’d been too caught up in what they were saying to silence it.  He turned away, not wanting to talk to either of them.  He swiftly made it down to the ground floor and out onto the street to catch another taxi.  As he rode back to Baker Street, he looked at the text.  It was definitely her and not a lookalike.  He couldn’t bring himself to ponder her return from the dead.  All he could focus on was John’s voice as he’d said those last words.  He’d almost sounded…defeated.

*

Despite Sherlock’s assurances that Mrs. Hudson would be fine, John still felt keyed up as they left her flat.  Helluva day it had been so far.  First he was abducted by a very much alive Irene Adler.  Then he came back to Baker Street to find out that Mrs. Hudson had been abused by the CIA.  This whole ugly business because of a stupid camera phone.  John couldn’t even begin to know what Sherlock was thinking about Irene still being alive.  John watched as he started up the stairs.  “ _Sherlock_ …”

Sherlock paused and turned.  “Don’t forget your tux, John.”  He nodded towards the garment bag that was still hanging on the hook where John had left it earlier.  _Christ_ , he’d forgotten all about the party.  “We don’t have much time to get ready.  I’ll shower first.”  He continued up the stairs.  John sighed, grabbed his tux, and followed.

 

When John came down from his room, Sherlock was in the sitting room, facing the window as he played that melancholy tune on his violin.  John supposed that even though Irene was alive, Sherlock must surely be shaken up by the fact that she faked her death.  “I ‘m ready to go, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stopped and turned towards John.  His violin still resting against his neck, Sherlock’s eyes took in John from head to toe.  He would feel more self-conscious if he weren’t so thunderstruck by the way Sherlock looked in his tux.  “ _Wow_ , Sherlock.  I’d almost say you look like you’re about to lead the first violin section in the Philharmonic.  But honestly you’re more James Bond material.”

Sherlock’s eyes looked really intense for a moment, and then he gave John a small smirk.  “All I’m missing is a martini in one hand and a gun in the other.”

John breathed out a shaky laugh, remembering Sherlock’s scathing comment when he still thought John was straight.  “You wouldn’t need them,” he murmured.  Clearing his throat, he stepped towards the door, offering Sherlock his arm.  “Shall we?”  Sherlock bit his lip for a second, then raised his eyebrow sardonically.  “Come on, it’s like an unwritten rule of tuxes.  If you’re going to be wearing one, sooner or later you have to escort someone on your arm.  We’ll take turns.”  Sherlock tried to hold back a snort and failed.  He looped his hand under John’s arm, and they left the flat.

In addition to securing them entrance to the Liberal Club, Mycroft had also sent a black car to deliver them.  John and Sherlock made absolutely sure it was from Mycroft before they got in.  As their car glided down the city streets, John watched all the holiday revelers meandering on the sidewalks and spilling out of entrances.  Looking at their hopeful faces, he felt a kinship with them.  They all wanted something special to happen, for the clicking over of one year to the next to somehow create something magical.  In his case, he wanted this one last kiss that they were sharing at midnight to mean something.  Maybe open something between them so that the kiss won’t actually be their last.

John wasn’t sure _why_ he still had hope.  He never got the chance to talk to Sherlock once he got back from Harry’s because he shrouded himself in sulky behavior all week.  But John couldn’t give up hope because he had seen glimpses of the Sherlock he fell in love with.  A little smile, a little giggle.  Sherlock going with him to pick out a suit - it was the most lively he’d been in days.  The fire in his eyes when John saw him holding the CIA arsehole at gunpoint.  John had been too happy to see it there to worry about whether Sherlock should be left alone with him. 

As much as Sherlock protests that he doesn’t care, the fact that he repeatedly threw a man out a window because he put bruises on the landlady…John would assert to his dying day that Sherlock was one of the most _human_ human beings he’d ever known.  So yeah, John couldn’t give up hope, despite the fact that Irene was very much alive and causing just as much a stir as ever.  Tonight, after they get back to Baker Street, he would absolutely talk to Sherlock.

Sherlock had made it clear that he didn’t want to be at the party itself a long time.  Considering his escalating behavior at the Christmas Eve thing, it was probably a good idea.  So they settled on arriving at 11:00.  John figured that an hour would be long enough to collect their intended audience and put on a show. 

Having made a list of people who would be at the party and were the most likely to spread the word as soon as possible, they cased the room. They caught a break almost immediately.  Sherlock spotted an MP who was a client of theirs last summer talking to a journalist known for her prolific twitter account. 

They made to casually walk by, and as they had hoped, the MP hailed them.  “Sherlock Holmes, it’s good to see you!”  He made introductions.  As they chatted, Sherlock casually put his arm around John’s shoulder, caressing it seemingly absentmindedly.  The MP raised his eyebrows only fractionally and didn’t say anything.  The journalist gave them a knowing look.  After a while, John thanked them for the lovely chat, and on impulse said that he’d promised Sherlock at least one dance.

They shifted to the dance floor.  “You know, I didn’t even think to ask if you knew how to dance.  I myself am a bit rubbish at it.”

Sherlock’s smile was soft.  “As it happens, I love to dance.  We’ll keep it simple for now, just follow my lead.  In the future, though, perhaps I should teach you.”  His smile faltered.  “Forget I said that, it would be a waste of time.  What are the odds another case will come up that’ll require you to dance?”

John gave him a warm smile as Sherlock gently led him around the floor, reveling in the feel of being in his arms.  “I’d love for you to teach me.  Does it have to be for a case?”

Sherlock looked like he was trying not to panic.  “It’s a bad idea.”  He looked around.  “I see one of the gossip columnists.  Over there.  I’ll maneuver us in his direction and signal when I can see that he’s looking at us.”

John wanted to know why Sherlock teaching him to dance was a bad idea.  Spending loads of time in each other’s arms with romantic music playing?  It sounded pretty fantastic to him.  After a couple of minutes, they had wended their way across the dance floor.  Sherlock gave a slight nod and then gathered John closer to him.  John looked up at Sherlock, who was gazing at him in naked adoration.  He lowered his head slightly so that their noses were sliding up against each other, and then shifted so their cheeks were touching.  John closed his eyes, allowing the bliss to show all over his face. 

When the song ended, John reluctantly pulled back.  “Come on, let’s get some nibbles.  I bet the food here is delicious.” 

Sherlock smiled, almost unwillingly.  “Mustn’t neglect my duties.  That’s what they’ll be expecting, right?  That we feed each other up?”

John chuckled.  “Yes.  Exactly.”  They made their way over to a table that was adorned with exquisite looking canapes.  John filled up a plate and then proceeded to make a big show of coaxing Sherlock to eat some of it.  Even going so far as to stuff a canape in his mouth.  They both giggled a lot.  At one point Sherlock checked his mobile and showed John that there’d been some tweets about them.  One had a picture of them dancing.  They were all getting lots of retweets. 

It went on this way as the clock inched towards midnight.  John found that he felt completely relaxed about being out and about with a man who was obviously his date.  Perhaps it was the fact that they’d been treading the edge of this for months with pretending to be in a secret relationship.  Perhaps it was because he wanted to be with Sherlock so badly that he didn’t care who was looking.  Most likely it was because if he were lucky enough to have Sherlock as a boyfriend, he’d want to show him off all the time. 

To John’s amazement, the tag #sherlockinlove began trending.  More pictures were showing up.  Someone was tweeting play by plays of their every move.  He hadn’t expected this, thinking that the best they could hope for was a short blurb in tomorrow’s gossip columns and a picture.

Wait staff came out and began setting trays of champagne flutes on small tables around the room, signaling that the countdown would soon begin.  John felt nervous.  It had been awhile since that kiss in the alley.  He wanted nothing more than to feel Sherlock’s lips against his again.  Sherlock subtly steered John towards a couple of photographers.  The countdown began.  John slipped his hand in Sherlock’s and gazed up into his eyes as he mouthed the words, “6…5…4…3…2…1.  Happy New Year, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s lip slightly trembled as he replied, “Happy New Year, John.”  His eyes dropped to John’s lips, and John felt like electricity was cascading through his body.

“Sherlock,” he breathed and then cupped the back of his neck, gently tugging him down.  When their lips met, he may or may not have whimpered.  He put his other hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, to hold himself upright.  Sherlock’s arms slowly curled around his back, tugging him close.  Knowing that it was probably too intense for such a public and posh setting, and frankly not caring, John licked against Sherlock’s bottom lip.  Sherlock’s hands gripped the fabric of John’s bloody expensive jacket, sighing as he opened up.  John shifted his hands so that he was framing Sherlock’s face, angling so he could lavish attention on Sherlock’s lips and mouth.  He didn’t have a mind palace, so he would have to do his best to commit this moment to memory in case it was the last chance he got. 

As much as he wanted it to go on and on, John reluctantly pulled away.  His eyes widened when he saw that a tear was rolling down Sherlock’s cheek and he looked anguished.  John wiped it away with his thumb, wondering if he’d also been emotionally compromised by the kiss.  “Sherlock…?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything for a moment, then forced a smile.  “Isn’t this what people do when they are…overwhelmed with love on a night like this?  Or is it too much?” 

Disappointed that it was fake, John shook his head.  “No, it’s not too much.  It’s a…um…it’s a nice touch.”  He felt his throat closing up when a second tear leaked from Sherlock’s other eye.  On impulse, John rose up to gently kiss it away from his cheek.

Sherlock’s breath hitched, and he turned his head, capturing John’s lips again.  He wasn’t prepared for a second kiss, but John had no objection whatsoever as he circled his arms around Sherlock’s neck, hugging him tightly.  He supposed this was more improvisation to bolster the idea that Sherlock was overcome with emotion. 

When they parted again, Sherlock looked a little more composed.  He stepped back and straightened his jacket.  John ran his hands down his own jacket to smooth it, feeling not composed at all.  Had those tears really been fake?  Sherlock was very good at making them appear on cue, but not as good with the emotions that go with the tears.  His portrayal was usually slightly off.  This had been far too convincing. 

Christ, it felt like all he’s done for months is try to second guess what’s going on in Sherlock’s mind.  Especially this past week, wondering whether Sherlock’s behavior was grief over Irene.  And now she was back again and claiming that their respective gender sexual preferences didn’t mean anything when it came to the attraction of their minds.  Brainy is the new sexy.  Clearly Irene had the same theory as John, that perhaps Sherlock was a sapiosexual. 

Sherlock held out his hand and John took it, following him over to the window to see the fireworks.  On the way, they snagged two glasses of champagne.  John took a long pull from his flute as he stared at the sky bursting in rainbow colors, wishing that he could have answers once and for all as to what was going on in Sherlock’s head.  If it turns out that Sherlock wants Irene, despite her game playing (or because of it), then he would keep his mouth shut about his own feelings. 

John felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see that it was the gossip columnist for the Mirror.  “That was a hell of a kiss, Doctor Watson.” 

John’s lips quirked in a wistful smile as he responded, “I quite agree.”

*

The kiss had really set him back.  Sherlock couldn’t believe that he’d actually _wept_.  It was mortifying.  He was so tired of it all.  Tired of Irene and her games.  Tired of a homophobic murderer judging him for all the things that he wished he were doing.  Tired of his own feelings betraying him.  He was supposed to be above all this.  His body was mere transport that should absolutely not crave connection with John’s.  His mind was meant to be focused on one thing – the Work. 

As Mycroft’s car whisked them back to Baker Street, Sherlock kept his eyes closed, concentrating as hard as he could on the one puzzle that has been eluding him a week now.  Well, there was also the puzzle of John, but he shoved that forcibly aside for the one that he could actually _solve_ if he put his mind to it.

John kept trying to engage him in talk about what they’d accomplished tonight, reading off the tedious tweets by gossip mongers who seemed to think they made such a _beautiful_ couple and that their kiss had _sizzled_.  It was hateful.  Sherlock ignored John until he finally subsided into silence. 

By the time they got back to the flat, Sherlock had a plan in place.  Tomorrow he’d go to Bart’s and see just what he was dealing with regarding Irene’s camera phone.  But first thing’s first.  He took out his mobile.  He blinked in surprise when John put his hand over it.  “Hey, um…Sherlock, can I say something?”

Sherlock pulled his hand away.  “Of course, John.  Just let me text Irene first.”  He quickly typed out, “Happy New Year” and hit send.  “There.”  He put his mobile away.

John stared at the space where the mobile had been.  “Sorry…did you just say you were texting Irene?

Sherlock frowned.  “Yes.”

“But…you’ve never texted her before.  She said today…”  John’s head twitched and he cleared his throat.  “Why now?”

Sherlock sighed.  “Because she wants me to.”  He began pacing around the sitting room.  “I just spent the last week thinking she was dead, and now…” he barked out a laugh, “…now it turns out she isn’t.  It’s made me realise that I can’t let the grass grow under my feet.”  Sherlock took out the camera phone and stared at it.  He knew Irene would be coming for it, and he needed to get into it before then.  Caressing the blank screen with his thumb, he murmured, “The only way to get what I want is to pursue her.”  If he kept her engaged, hopefully he could figure her out enough to get a clue about the passcode.  Disguises weren’t the only things that were a self-portrait.  Passcodes were, too. 

John blinked.  “You’re going to pursue her?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “She wants to play games, I’ll play her game.  Maybe she’ll let me in, so I can really get to know her.”  It had been stupid of him to think that he could guess her passcode when he knew so little about her.  He’d been completely unable to read her that day he came to her house, and it had been his downfall.

John’s brow furrowed.  “I see.”

Sherlock tilted his head.  “What was it you wanted to say?”

John looked up, his lips pursed.  “Oh…um.  Well, uh… I…I think, based on the success of tonight, we need to be on guard against our killer.  For real this time, if he’s actually going to follow through on his threat.  So, whatever we do tomorrow, we should stick together.”

Sherlock nodded.  “Yes, that would be wise.  My plan is to go to Bart’s, if that’s alright.”

John took a deep breath.  “Yeah, that works.  I’ll bring my laptop.  Do a blog entry.  I’m sure folks are going to be watching for what we have to say about tonight.”

Sherlock didn’t want to be reminded of that.  “Of course.  Be sure to bring your gun, as well.  If that’s all, John, I should be off to bed.”

John opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again.  After a moment, he whispered, “Yeah, I guess that’s it…That’s all I had to say.  Goodnight, Sherlock.”  He turned and went up the stairs.

 

Sherlock was in a foul mood as he and John left St. Bart’s.  He barely refrained from biting John’s head off when he insisted that they stop off at a café for lunch.  It was only a few hours ago that John had breakfast.  But Sherlock knew from experience that if he didn’t let John eat when he wanted to, his own foul mood would eclipse Sherlock’s.  As John ate, Sherlock contemplated his latest discovery regarding Irene’s camera phone.  It was rigged to destroy the contents if the casing was opened.  Acid or explosive.  He’d also failed in another attempt to guess the passcode.  To top it off, Irene hadn’t replied to his text.  She’d sent upwards of 80 texts to him over the course of several months, and when he finally replied, radio silence.  _Games_.

Sherlock slowly became aware that several of the patrons were glancing at them surreptitiously.  It took him a moment to realise why.  He and John had been recognised.  Just as John had hoped, a picture of them kissing made it into the gossip columns, along with a quote from John that simply said they’d decided to stop hiding.  Between that and twitter, they were the “talk of the town” today.  Mrs. Hudson came up to the flat that morning, demanding to know why she was the last to know.  They’d explained that it was for a case, that they were baiting someone, and it would be better if she were to plan to be out for the rest of the day.   

Sherlock wanted to storm out of the cafe, but he found himself inexplicably unwilling to embarrass John by being a bad boyfriend in the eyes of those watching.  He settled for waiting the interminable amount of time that it took John to finish his meal and then they finally headed back to Baker Street.

 

When they stepped into the flat, a man was waiting in Sherlock’s chair.  Next to him on the table was the newspaper open to the gossip column.  Sherlock felt a shiver of anticipation.  It was him.  _Finally_.  John stiffened when he saw him. 

Sherlock had known from observing his stalking that the killer was an older man, 60s, possibly trained in the military from the way he carried himself.  Now that he saw him close up, Sherlock could see that he had indeed been career military, hence his fixation on John.  He had very deep and rigid ideals.  From the way he and John were sizing each other up, he was likely very similar in temperament to John’s father.  Sherlock had been pondering for weeks what it was that made him target gay couples with violent fervour.  Now it seemed obvious.  “It was your son, wasn’t it?”

The man’s eyes snapped towards Sherlock.  His eyes were full of loathing as he nodded.  Sherlock continued.  “He was making a name for himself in his chosen career, or possibly gaining some other social prominence in London.  But he was carrying on a secret affair with another man.  He got careless and was caught.  It ruined everything.”

The man’s lip curled.  His voice tight with suppressed emotion, he bit out, “He was head of surgery.  About to be tapped as medical director of the entire hospital.  Youngest doctor that would have ever had that position.  He didn’t get careless, Mr. Holmes.  He outed himself.  The members of the board were saying that he should settle down and get married and he got tired of making excuses.  He didn’t get the promotion, of course.  Eventually quit because of the hostility.  He’s got a practice up in Aberdeen, now.  He’s met a nice girl, and they’re happy.  The way it should be.  Too bad he had to ruin his life before he realised what was right.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man.  “It wasn’t just him, was it?  _You_ had a fling with a man.  In the Navy, if I’m not mistaken.”  The man sucked in his breath, his eyes widening.  “Your crewmates found out and did a number on you.  After that you forced yourself to never look at a man again.  Classic case of self-loathing.  You probably feel like you’re to blame in some way for your son’s proclivities.  The sins of the father and all that tosh.”  The man flinched, his hands fisting.  “So, the only way you can redeem yourself is to warn others not to make the same mistakes.  And if they won’t see the error of their ways, you eliminate them so they can’t infect the rest of the world.” 

The man lifted his chin, his eyes blazing with self-righteousness.  Sherlock snorted.  “I’m right, aren’t I?  How utterly banal.”  His expression turned flinty.  “I can’t believe I wasted months of my life trying to lure you in.  You’re pathetic.  You’d be completely beneath my notice if you hadn’t murdered two men in cold blood.”

The man stood, and Sherlock could see he had a pistol in his hand.  John made to reach for his, but the man raised his gun warningly.  “What exactly do you mean when you say ‘luring me in’?”

Sherlock barked out a laugh.  “Oh come now, isn’t it _obvious_?  I’m a detective.  I frequently work with the police.  Didn’t you think it at all suspicious that right after you murdered Pringle, suddenly a noted crime solver began exhibiting the same behavior as your victims?”

The man stared at him in disbelief.  “Are you trying to tell me that you two aren’t actually lovers?  That it was all an act?”

Sherlock smirked.  “It was so _easy_ to set you off.  We had a lot of fun with it.  I was quite proud of myself that I got you to creep into a sex shop and overhear our lurid conversation with the assistant.  That must have been so mortifying for you.  But even better was thinking about how much you probably paid the hotel staff to find out about our rumpled sheets.  Money down the tubes, I’m afraid.  We never had sex.  It was all…made… _up_.”  His smile widened until it was shark-like.

The man was gaping at this point.  He looked at John.  “So, you’re not really gay?  Those girlfriends…weren’t a cover?”  His gun was starting to lower slightly.

Sherlock could see from John’s stormy expression that he was about to contradict him.  He spoke quickly, “Of course not.  He didn’t exactly keep it down whenever he took them upstairs.”  He rolled his eyes.  John flushed red, but kept his mouth shut.

The man looked at him with narrowed eyes.  “And what about you?”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder.  “As it happens, the woman John mentioned in his blog…Irene Adler.  She’s back in my life again.  Causing quite a stir.”  He winked.

The gun lowered even more.  “Well, that’s alright then.”  His shoulders relaxed.  “I should be angry that you tried to bait me, but I can’t help but be relieved, Doctor Watson.  You remind me so much of my son.  I know you would have had a career like his if you hadn’t been wounded in service.”  His lip trembled.  “I’m not a violent man.  I just want people to do what’s right.”    

Sherlock glanced over at John to signal that he should make a move to disarm him.  To his horror, he could see that John was quivering with rage.  Probably the reminder of his own father.  “You’re not a violent man? You murdered two people!  I’d say your idea of what’s _right_ is pretty fucking twisted!”

The man’s lips tightened.  “I didn’t start out wanting to kill them!  I thought the threats would be enough.  But they just wouldn’t _listen_.”

John was giving him that dangerous smile of his.  Sherlock felt his skin prickle.  “So you thought they would be better off dead than to go on loving each other.”

“It wasn’t natural!  I don’t understand why you’re so upset, it’s not like you’re one of them.  Mr. Holmes said - you’re not a couple.”

“We could have been!” John thundered.  He jabbed a finger at the newspaper.  “Just so you know, it wasn’t _all_ an act!”

The man turned his head to look down at the table next to him.  The motion caused his gun hand to list to the side, away from the two of them.  Before Sherlock even had time to absorb the significance of what he was saying, John took one step forward with his left leg, and with his right he kicked out, his foot connecting with the hand holding the gun.  The gun went off, missing John, and then flew out of the man’s hand. 

Sherlock lunged for the man as John went for the gun.  Unfortunately, the man’s combat training kicked in and he managed to use Sherlock’s momentum against him.  Sherlock found himself being knocked into the desk chair and he landed hard on the floor.  The man darted for the door.  By the time John had the gun and was raising it, he was gone.  They both bolted down the stairs and out onto the street.  He’d completely disappeared.  “Damn it!  Wiley old codger!  I should have tricked him into telling me his name.”

John was breathing hard, but he managed to smirk at Sherlock.  “We’ve got the next best thing.  Looks like I wasn’t the only one that kept his service pistol.”  He held up the gun. 

Sherlock beamed at him.  He was right, of course.  It would still take time to trace it, but it was a lot better than a physical description and what few facts he’d been able to deduce.  He pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his Belstaff and John deposited the gun into it.  He put it in his pocket and then held up his hand for a taxi.  They needed to get to Scotland Yard right away. 


	8. Chapter 8

It took a day and a half to finally catch up with the killer identified as Douglas Williamson.  Lestrade kept constant surveillance on them, though Sherlock pointed out it was redundant given his brother’s watchful eye.  Greg was insistent.  He didn’t know Mycroft’s people, he only trusted his own.  It took a while to get information back on the gun, and make sure they had the right guy.  By that time, Williamson had already boarded a train going north.  Sherlock deduced that he was on his way to Aberdeen.  He’d only just gotten back from there, having spent the holidays with his son.  When the local authorities visited the son’s house, Williamson refused to turn himself over to authorities and held his son and the girlfriend hostage.  After five hours of negotiation, he finally gave himself up.  Apparently, it was the son that convinced him in the end.  Sherlock and John watched the whole thing unfold over a live video feed at Scotland Yard, with Sherlock giving suggestions to the locals over his mobile. 

When Williamson was finally in custody, they went back home to Baker Street and slept like the dead.  Or at least John did.  He wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock stayed up filing away everything in his mind palace.  John woke up the morning of January 3rd feeling refreshed.  It was always a weight off his mind when someone dangerous was put behind bars and they could wrap up a case.  It was also the end of all the pretending.  No more putting on a show. 

They’d probably have to decide at some point what to do about the fact that most of London and beyond now believed they were together.  Not that people hadn’t thought it before, but now there was supposed confirmation.  It wouldn’t put a crimp in John’s lifestyle, since he’d decided to swear off dating for the time being.  But if Sherlock was going to pursue Irene as he said, she might not appreciate everyone thinking he belonged to someone else.

John told himself 10 days ago, after Sherlock’s apparent dream about him, that once the case was over he would talk to Sherlock.  But then Irene left her camera phone on their mantle and ever since then, John didn’t know what to think.  He kept coming back to what Harry said to him.  “There’s only one way to know.  _Talk_ to him.”

As John inserted some bread into the toaster, Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen.  John stifled a groan.  He was wearing a sheet again.  He didn’t do that all the time, but when he did it was all John could do to avoid staring at whatever glimpses he was given of that creamy, smooth skin.  “Morning, John.”  Christ, that was another thing.  He’d never get used to Sherlock’s just-woke-up voice.

Shaking away his lustful thoughts, John smiled ruefully.  “Can’t really call it morning at this point.  I would be making lunch, but we have nothing in.  Just stale bread.  I’m going out to Tesco’s once I’m fully awake.”

Sherlock yawned.  He always looked like Tigger when he did that.  “Good idea, John.  Let’s get something special to make for dinner.  To celebrate the close of the case.”

 John’s eyebrows shot up.  “Oh!  Yeah, that’s definitely worth a special occasion.  Wouldn’t you rather go out, though?  Someplace posh?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.  “No.  I don’t want to deal with spectators.  I’m tired of everyone peering at us and judging us.  Tonight it will be just you and me, John.”  He gave him a warm look.  “You know, this was the first case in which we were truly partners.  You didn’t just assist me, John, you played an integral part.  You did a fantastic job and…I’m sorry I doubted you.”

John felt himself flush from his neck up to his hairline.  He swallowed hard.  “You were quite brilliant yourself.  And I too must apologise for thinking you’d be pants at the whole relationship thing.  I mean, I know we were only pretending, but I think you would do quite well…in the romance department.”

Sherlock stared at him, then blinked rapidly several times.  He seemed so stunned, John wondered if he doubted his words.  “Thank you, John.”  He blinked a few more times, then seemed to come back online.  “So, it’s settled, we’ll cook a nice meal, share a bottle of wine.  We’ll even watch one of your Bond movies.”

John grinned.  “Perfect.”

 

Oddly enough, they had a great time shopping at Tesco’s.  Figuring out what they would make, bickering over the ingredients, haggling over just how much they should spend on a bottle of red wine.  By the time they made it back to the flat, John was flying high above the world. 

He plummeted back to earth at the sight of Irene Adler asleep in Sherlock’s bed.  John felt helpless against the jealousy that spiked through him seeing her tangled up in his sheets, her face resting on his pillow.  The intimacy of it took his breath away.  Even as he went back to the kitchen to put away the bottle of wine he’d been holding, he couldn’t help but wonder why Sherlock referred to her as a client.   

John put away the groceries, resigned to the fact that their plans for the evening were ruined.  After a while, Sherlock came back into the kitchen.  “I woke her up, told her to take a shower.  I could smell her the moment I walked into the flat.  Wherever she was hiding out must have been intolerable.  No wonder she finally broke down and came to me.”  He wrinkled his nose.  “Now I’m going to have to wash the sheets.”

John drummed his fingers on the counter.  “Should I leave you to it, then?  Give you some privacy?”

Sherlock frowned at him.  “What for?”

John waved his hand down the hallway.  “This is the perfect opportunity to get to know her better, as you wanted.”

Sherlock still looked bemused.  “I don’t need privacy for that.  You can’t leave, John.  We’re making dinner, remember?  I’m sure it won’t take long for her to explain why she’s here and how we can help, and then I’ll send her on her way.”

Now it was John’s turn to be confused.  “Send her on her way?  She’s got people after her.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  “Exactly.  This is the worst place for her to be, since I’m a known connection.  They’ve assaulted Mrs. Hudson already, and that was when they just wanted the phone.”

John rubbed his hand on his face.  “You’re right, of course.  Christ.”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder.  “I’ll just send her to one of my bolt holes.  Have my homeless network watch over her.  She’ll be fine until I can figure out how to help her.”

 

So John didn’t leave.  Instead he was forced to watch Irene swan about in nothing but one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns as she played her little games.  Sherlock had games of his own, what with the fake camera phone.  John couldn’t get over that he went through all that trouble just to get the passcode.  It always seemed to come back to the phone.  Sherlock was very keen to break into it.  He’d almost say that Sherlock was more interested in the phone than he was in Irene.

After far too much flirting, they finally got down to the reason why she was here – some fragment of an e-mail she copied that not even a top cryptographer had been able to solve.  Sherlock figured it out in _seconds_.  John would have said something about his brilliance if he weren’t so bothered by the fact that Irene kissed Sherlock on the cheek.  He also may have been irritated that Sherlock made a joke at his expense about the amount of praise that John has heaped on him over the past year.

Irene rose to the challenge and told Sherlock she’d have him on the desk begging for mercy twice.  Sherlock retorted that he’d never begged for anything in his life.  He looked over at John.  “Can you check on those flight schedules for me, see if I’m right?  Please?”

Their eyes met briefly before he was turning back to Irene.  _Please_.  John felt a thrill go through him, as he realised what Sherlock said wasn’t true.  He may not have known it, but Sherlock _has_ begged twice.  When he was sleeping next to John.  Wanting John to give him another chance.  _Please_. 

John checked the flight schedules and confirmed Sherlock’s deduction.  Something about this confirmation must have triggered another deduction because Sherlock’s eyes went unfocused and he began to mumble to himself.  Clear signs he was going into his mind palace. 

John sighed in resignation when Sherlock lowered himself slowly into his chair and steepled his fingers.  Yep, he was heading in for a nice long think.  No telling how long he’d be like this.  It could be 20 minutes, it could be 20 hours.  He said as much to Irene when she looked at him inquiringly.  “When he’s like this, he doesn’t even notice whether I’m there or not.  Talks to me anyways.”  She looked utterly charmed by this and went over to sit opposite Sherlock.  In _his_ chair.  Staring at Sherlock like she wanted to take him apart. 

John went to the kitchen on the pretense of getting another cup of tea, wondering what he should do.  Shove her out the door now that her little puzzle was solved?  She was still in danger, and Sherlock did say he’d set her up someplace safe that didn’t smell like the sewer.  John was reminded of Sherlock’s comment about washing his sheets.  It struck him that this was a good way to keep himself busy.  A bit weird to be doing his flatmate’s washing – probably even Sherlock would think so.  But given how much he’d _hated_ seeing Irene in Sherlock’s bed, John felt a very personal need to erase her presence there. 

John went back to Sherlock’s bedroom and stripped the bed.  Bloody hell but the linens did smell bad.  The duvet as well.  He stripped the duvet cover off, realizing this would take a couple of loads.  He carried the sheets to the stacked washer/dryer and started the first wash going.  It was odd to think that just that morning, Sherlock had been wearing the flat sheet around like a toga. 

John glanced into the sitting room where Irene was still sitting like she had no intention of going anywhere.  A part of him wanted to leave.  Get away from the scene of cozy domesticity.  But Sherlock had said he didn’t want him to, claiming that he still wanted to do dinner.  Of course, that was before their epic flirtation and Sherlock showing off how quickly he could solve a riddle.  And before he went into his mind palace which could occupy him well into the night.

If the Williamson case hadn’t happened, if he and Sherlock had just continued on as flatmates with John’s feelings for him an easily ignored background ache, John would have left.  Allowed Irene her chance to claim Sherlock and hopefully make him happy.  But too much has happened.  Too many incidents in the past few months that made John think he might have a chance with Sherlock if they just found the time to bloody _talk_.  So, he wasn’t going to cede ground to Irene.  If she wants Sherlock alone, she’s going to have to work for it.  John walked past her without saying a word and sat at the desk to type up the Williamson case. 

It went on that way for a couple of hours.  John typing up the case, occasionally seeing to the laundry, and answering Sherlock’s murmured questions.  He was never quite sure if Sherlock even heard the answers.  Irene never said anything, either staring at Sherlock or seemingly lost in thought.  When it got to be dinner time and Sherlock still hadn’t come back to reality, John had a small sandwich.  Not very filling, but just in case.  He asked Irene if she wanted anything, and she asked for a glass of wine.  He went through the cabinet and found one of the unopened bottles from the Christmas Eve thing.  He wasn’t going to give her any of the wine he and Sherlock bought today.  It was a nice bottle and it was for no one else.  He handed her a glass of the cheap stuff.  When she took a sip, she only made a token effort to hide her distaste. 

When the two loads of laundry were complete, John took everything back to Sherlock’s bedroom and began making the bed.  He had all the sheets and pillowcases on, and was in the middle of struggling with the duvet cover when he heard voices.  Specifically, Sherlock’s voice.  He stopped, and sure enough he heard Sherlock ask, “Where’s John?”  He didn’t hear Irene’s murmured reply.

John started down the hall, stopping when he heard Irene ask, “Have you ever had anyone?”  Sherlock’s reply was muffled.  Edging closer, while still far enough away that he might not be noticed, he heard Irene asking him to dinner.  Just like in her texts.  Sherlock wasn’t making it easy on her, his replies indicating that he was either obtuse or pretending to be in order to find out what she really wanted.  “Why would I want to go to dinner if I wasn’t hungry?” 

Something about that question resonated with John.  Before he could analyze it, Mrs. Hudson was coming up the stairs.  She was accompanied by the secret service agent that had been lurking around Buckingham Palace.  John hurried into the sitting room.  The agent handed Sherlock an envelope, and he pulled out what looked like an airline ticket.  Sherlock showed it to John.  It was the flight they had looked up earlier.  “Where is John’s ticket?”

The agent looked at him impassively.  “Doctor Watson wasn’t invited.”

Sherlock smirked at him.  “You know I won’t go without him.”

The agent didn’t so much as twitch an eyelash.  “I’ll be waiting downstairs.”  He turned and left the flat.

Sherlock stood up and went to get his coat.  “I’m sorry about dinner, John.” 

John collected his jacket.  “Well, from what it sounded like, you weren’t hungry.”

Sherlock’s smile was gentle as he wrapped his scarf around his neck.  “It was more about the celebration than the food, anyway.  We’ll have another chance.”  John couldn’t help the pleased grin that spread across his face.  So he _had_ been pretending to be obtuse.  John forced himself not to throw a smug look Irene’s way. 

As they went down the stairs and got into the vehicle, John fondly remembered all the times that Sherlock has gone along with him to eat a meal when he was in the middle of a case and refusing to eat himself.  He could have easily run off to do something else while John fueled up, but he never did.  He kept John company, usually talking nonstop about the case. 

John felt something warm spread inside him, and he was glad that he hadn’t gone out after all.  He would have missed coming along with Sherlock on whatever was about to happen.  He listened as Sherlock shared his theory about there being a bomb on the jet in question, saying it was Coventry all over again.  John was familiar with the history from WWII, and felt his blood run cold.  “Excuse me, _what_?  They’re going to let the jet blow up?!”

Sherlock shook his head.  “I have a feeling there’s more to the story.  We’ll soon find out.”

They eventually arrived at a runway, where the jet was parked.  Standing guard was the piece of shit CIA agent.  Sherlock smirked at him and asked him how he was feeling.  “Like putting a bullet in your brain.   Sir.”  John stiffened, but Sherlock snickered and started up the stairs.  “They’d pin a medal on me if they did.  _Sir_.” 

John smiled blandly at him.  “I’m sure you’d get lots of _pins_ after I break every bone in…”

“John!”  He glared up at Sherlock, but relented when he saw the mirth in his eyes.  Without another glance at the arseface CIA agent, John followed Sherlock up the stairs.

The interior cabin was dark, with a small amount of ambient light.  There were dozens of people seated, but no one was talking or moving.  Drugged?  John glanced down at one of the passengers.  Even in the low light, it was immediately evident that she was dead and had been for a while.  _Preserved_.  John darted a glance at Sherlock, who had obviously come to the same conclusion.

Mycroft appeared at the opposite end of the aisle.  John listened as he and Sherlock went back and forth about the “Coventry conundrum.”  John was relieved to realise that no one would be murdered by terrorists.  He was also a bit amused to learn that one of the few cases Sherlock hadn’t been able to solve turned out to have Mycroft’s hand in it. 

“Sherlock, I’m talking about you!”  John looked up, startled.  He’d never heard so much emotion in Mycroft’s voice before.  His eyes were flashing with anger until he had Sherlock’s full attention.  Then he was back to his usual supercilious tone as he described how Irene had lured Sherlock effortlessly into her game. 

John felt his hand tremor and he clenched it.  It was true, Sherlock _had_ deciphered the e-mail incredibly quickly.  “I think it was less than five seconds.”  John whipped his head around.  Irene was standing there.  She was wearing some sort of cocktail dress.  Like she was going to a party.

John heard Mycroft say in a defeated tone, “I drove her into your path.”  John turned back and stared at him.  He was looking at Sherlock, full of self-recrimination.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.  I thought surely…”  He turned his eyes to John.  He understood what Mycroft left unspoken.  He thought that Sherlock would be immune to Irene’s charms.  He thought that Sherlock’s interest lay elsewhere. 

Irene spoke again as she brushed past John, her tone imperious.  “We need to talk, Mr. Holmes.”  Sherlock made to speak, but she cut him off.  “Not you, Junior.  You’re done now.”  She brushed past him as well, continuing on to Mycroft.

As she made her power play, the one she’d been planning this entire time, John thought back to Buckingham Palace.  Sherlock’s voice had thrummed with excitement as he declared that this would be _fun_.  And now…not so much.  It hadn’t been the royal family she was after, it had been the Holmes family. 

 

John wasn’t sure why it was necessary for he and Sherlock to join Mycroft and Irene at the Diogenes Club.  Perhaps Mycroft was hoping that Sherlock would come up with some last minute save.  It was certainly possible.  Sherlock was that good.

The two negotiators sat at a table, while Sherlock chose an armchair facing away from them.  Apparently he wanted to listen, but not have to look at them.  Did Irene affect him that much?  Or was he just piqued because he’d allowed himself to be used? 

When they sat down, Sherlock asked him if he wanted to order something to eat.  The club’s kitchen was open at all hours.  John shook his head, having no appetite, but he did get something to drink.  He sipped a scotch as he listened to Irene tighten the noose around Mycroft’s neck, as well as make digs about how effectively she manipulated Sherlock in her game.

Mycroft had to be wrong.  Sherlock didn’t fall for Irene.  He couldn’t have given his heart to someone like that, so cold-blooded and mercenary.  It couldn’t be about sex, either.  Sherlock wasn’t going to change his sexual preferences just because Irene was beautiful and alluring and clever and self-assured and…dangerous. _Shit_.

John took another sip of scotch and forced himself to think logically.  To _observe_.  John has observed that Sherlock seemed to show the most interest in the puzzles.  First Sherlock was keen to figure out where the photographs were hidden.  Then when he was given the camera phone, he’d been obsessed with unlocking it - even when Irene was supposedly dead.  When she turned up alive, Sherlock stepped up his efforts.  He had a duplicate made of the phone, knowing she’d turn up.  He _wanted_ her to turn up at the flat.  Was that why he’d texted her on New Year’s?  John felt some of the air leave his lungs.  Of _course_.  Sherlock said he wanted to get to know her.  The best way to find out someone’s passcode.    Hope surged through John.  Was Harry right after all?  _Isn’t it more likely that he’s gay and just sees her as another puzzle to solve?_

John snapped out of his reverie at the sound of Irene mentioning Jim Moriarty.  His mouth gaped open as she explained how he’d helped her.  “You know what he calls the two of you?”  She looked at Mycroft.  “The Ice Man.”  John had to admit it was fitting.  Then she looked over at Sherlock.  “…and The Virgin.”  Her gaze skated across John for a moment, her lips curved in a knowing smile, before turning back to Mycroft.  John looked over at Sherlock.  Instead of looking insulted like had when Mycroft implied he was scared of sex, Sherlock seemed to be making a deduction.    

Was Irene aware of just how bloody ruthless Moriarty was?  Or did she not care?  John took a large sip of his scotch, wincing as it burned.  He could have gone the rest of his life without hearing that name again.  He should have known that Irene was Moriarty’s doing.  Would they ever be rid of him?

“No.”  John looked up at Sherlock, wondering if he’d read his mind.  “Very, very close, but no.”  He stared as Sherlock stood up and walked towards Irene.  John felt goosebumps march up his arms towards his neck, and he shivered.  Sherlock had done it.  He’d figured out a way to shut down Irene’s power play, John knew it in his bones. 

John watched, almost holding his breath, as Sherlock began his deductions.  Expecting to enjoy the show, John instead felt frozen in place by Sherlock’s cold words.  “Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side,” is what Sherlock told Irene just before he stepped close to her, curling his hand around her wrist.  All the blood rushed to John’s head and it took him a moment to realise that Sherlock was cataloging her physical response to him.  Dilated pupils, elevated pulse. 

John should be relieved that Sherlock wasn’t making a move on her.  But the way he was flaying her open made John feel exposed, too.  He almost flinched when Sherlock spoke his name.  “I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple.”  He glanced over at John, but didn’t meet his eyes.  In almost a whisper he finished, “And very destructive.”

John’s heart sank, unwilling to examine what Sherlock meant as he moved on to talking about the passcode, confirming John’s suspicions that it would be very personal.  Apparently Sherlock figured out the key to her heart, because he had the phone and was entering in the code.  “I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage.  Thank you for the final proof.”  John’s hand tightened on his glass.  There it was again. Sherlock scorning love, his attitude just as derisive now as he had always been about John’s romantic pursuits.  John couldn’t even take in whatever Irene said in response.   Based on her devastated expression, Sherlock had finally got the passcode right.  He handed the phone to Mycroft. 

John carefully set his glass on the small end table next to his armchair and stood up.  He couldn’t bloody well take this anymore.  Without a word to the others, he left the room and made his way through the club to the entrance of the building. He needed air or he was going to suffocate.  He _can’t_ have got it wrong.  He was 90% on the way to thinking that Sherlock might return his feelings.  Maybe…maybe deep down he did, in that id portion of his psyche that he tended to ignore.  It had come out when he slept, begging John in his dreams.  But perhaps upon waking, the very idea was abhorrent.  

“John?”  He kept himself from flinching.  Taking a deep breath, he looked up at Sherlock, who was approaching him, his expression unreadable.  “You look dead on your feet.  Do you think you have enough energy to get something to eat?”

John stared at him in disbelief.  “Eat?”

Sherlock looked away.  “I think we’re too exhausted to go ahead with our original plan for tonight.  But there’s that Chinese place that’s open till 2.  The one where we had our first dinner together.”

John took another couple of deep breaths, trying to reconcile this Sherlock full of concern with the one who just eviscerated Irene Adler for the gall to have feelings.  Forcing himself to focus on the mundane, he countered, “It was actually Angelo’s where we had our first dinner.”

Sherlock smiled.  “That doesn’t count.  We were there for a case and I didn’t eat.  The Chinese place was our first proper dinner.”

A black car pulled up.  The driver told them Mycroft had it fetched for them, since it was so late at night.  Sherlock rolled his eyes, but acquiesced.  As they rode back to Baker Street, John quietly said, “For what it’s worth…to me, all the dinners count.  Even the ones where you didn’t eat.”  He looked over at Sherlock. “Especially the ones where you didn’t eat.”  The expression on Sherlock’s face could have been called sentimental if he hadn’t just been disavowing such an emotion.

Since the Chinese place was about to close, they ordered takeaway and went back to the flat.  They sat on the sofa with their boxes spread out on the coffee table, eating in silence for a while.  John finally asked him what Irene’s passcode had been.  Sherlock told him.  S-H-E-R.  Sherlocked.  John kept his eyes on his food, unable to speak for a moment.  Then he cleared his throat.  “You said it was her heart.  Does that mean she was in love with you after all?”

Sherlock slowly chewed a piece of dumpling.  Then he shook his head.  “I believed her when she told you that she’s gay.  She’ll only ever love a woman, feel sexual attraction for a woman.  But she does feel drawn to people who are her intellectual equal or more.  That includes Moriarty and my brother, but it was different with me.  I think she believed she had a chance at making me her sub.  Remember the crack about the leash?”  John wasn’t likely to forget.  “Think about all her behavior towards me in the time that we’ve known her.  She was playing Moriarty’s game, but she was also trying to groom me.  Disarming me with her nudity, drugging me, striking me with her whip, changing my ringtone to something sexual, and then constantly texting.  Earlier in our flat, when she was trying to persuade me to take her to dinner, that’s when I felt her pulse.  She was very stimulated by the idea of finally breaking down my resolve, getting me to submit.” 

John frowned.  He shook his head.  “But back at the club you mentioned sentiment.  Love.  Her _heart_.  What you just described…that sounds more like she wanted you as a pet.” 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  “Well, don’t people usually love their pets?  She was quite devoted to the idea of making me hers.  That was where she went wrong.  She should have stuck to Moriarty’s plan and not given in to the desire to possess me.  _Sentiment_.”  He scoffed.

John’s lips tightened.  He reached over and closed up his portion of the boxes, then stood up.  “I think I’m done here, I’m going to bed.”

Sherlock scowled.  “What’s the matter with you?”

John huffed.  “You want to know what’s the matter with me?  You’re a hypocrite!  You sneer at anyone who shows the slightest bit of emotion or caring, yet you’re every bit as guilty of it!  What is all this…” he waved his hand at the food, “…if not sentiment, Sherlock?  You’re feeding me up like I’m your bloody boyfriend.   And I would enjoy it if you weren’t also acting like it’s beneath you.  Declaring that those of us who want…who…who _need_ to feel cared about are somehow deficient.”

Sherlock, who had been staring at him like he had three heads, turned red and looked away when he said the word boyfriend.  John stacked his boxes and took them to the kitchen to put in the refrigerator.  Then he rubbed his face with his hand.  “Look, just forget I said anything.  I’m exhausted.  This day has been frankly shite.  I’m going to bed.”  He went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then climbed the stairs to his bedroom.  Honestly, he was surprised that Sherlock didn’t say anything in response to his accusation.   No scathing retorts or rebuttals.  John was too weary to try and analyze why.  He stripped down to his vest and boxer briefs, then climbed into bed.  He was asleep almost immediately. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I knew from watching ASIB that Irene showers after showing up at the flat, but never paid much attention to it. Then as part of the scene in my story, I felt like I needed to come up with a reason why she took one. For some reason, it just made sense that it was because she'd been hiding out somewhere sketchy, and might be pretty ripe. And maybe it wasn't her perfume Sherlock was smelling when he came in the flat, but something foul. I had fun with it.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock stared in the direction of the landing for many long minutes.  He had wondered why John walked out of the Diogenes club without even so much as a “brilliant” and now he had his answer.  When Sherlock was criticizing Irene, John thought he was passing judgment on him as well.  He didn’t understand.  Sherlock objected to sentiment in himself and in his adversaries.  Not John.  Never John.   

Sherlock wondered if this was partly because he was constantly needling John about the girlfriends.  As usual, John sees but does not observe.  Sherlock didn’t judge him for wanting romance and love.  It vexed him that John was seeking it elsewhere.  Even worse, that it mattered so much.  John was so close to getting it.  As much as Sherlock didn’t want to care, he very much did.  He wanted to feed John up.  He too needed to feel cared about…but only by John.

Sherlock put away his food and went down the hall to the bedroom.  He paused in the doorway, staring at his bed in bafflement.  The sheets had clearly been washed and put back on.  The duvet was lying on the floor, the cover halfway on, like an illicit lover caught with his trousers half down.  John must have done this.  If it had been Mrs. Hudson, she would have finished the job.  John must have washed them while Sherlock was in his mind palace, and was interrupted because the secret service came to take them to the jet.  But why was John washing his sheets?  Sherlock stepped further into the room, resting a hand on one of the pillows. 

He would have wanted something to do.  Irene’s presence made him agitated, he needed to keep busy.  Sherlock had mentioned the sheets smelling.  John decided to wash them.  It made him feel good to do something for Sherlock.  But that wasn’t the only motivation…  He couldn’t get rid of Irene, but he could get rid of the odour she brought with her.  No, there was more to it...  Irene being in the flat was bad enough.  Her being in Sherlock’s bed was intolerable.  That’s it.  John hated that she was in his bed.  He hated that she texted him.  Hated that she flirted with him.  John was _jealous_.  So, he eliminated her from Sherlock’s sheets.  He made Sherlock’s bed, which itself was an intimate act.  John was taking care of Sherlock. 

Sherlock sat down.  It was all there.  So obvious if he’d really _looked_.  He’d been willfully blind.  He’d not only been trying to rid himself of the inconvenient emotions he felt for John, he’d also been trying to ignore John’s inconvenient feelings for him.  And in his desire to make sure John didn’t get hurt by his enemies, Sherlock was the one hurting him.  Making John think that he could never love him.

Sherlock leapt off the bed and raced down the hall, then thundered up the stairs to John’s room.  “John!  _John!_ ”  He skidded to a halt at the end of John’s bed, just as John was fumbling to turn on the lamp.

The light clicked on and John regarded him with sleepy confusion.  He hadn’t been asleep long, so he should come out of it soon.  “Sh’lock, whuh?”

Sherlock came around to the side and sat down.  “John, I have something very important to tell you, so I need you to be fully awake.” 

John blew out a breath.  “Yeah, alright.  I’m almost there. What time is it, I don’t feel like I slept long.”

“It’s only been half an hour since you went to bed.”

John’s shoulders slumped.  “And whatever this is couldn’t wait until morning?”

“No, it can’t,” he said tightly.

John looked up at him, his gaze sharpening.  “What is it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock took a deep breath.  “You know all those things I said to Irene tonight?  I know you don’t like it that I believe them to be true.  I know it’s not a very _kind_ outlook on life.  But I’m right.  You know I am.  Love _is_ a dangerous disadvantage.  Look at Moriarty’s threat to burn out my heart.  It wouldn’t be effective if I didn’t have one, would it?  That’s what’s been so frustrating, because a year ago I wouldn’t have been scared of what he could do to me.  But _now_ , I’m terrified of what he could do to you.”

John stared at him, eyes wide.  Sherlock stood up and started pacing.  “That’s the part that you haven’t been getting.  Despite these principles that I’ve been holding onto for years…despite Mycroft’s constant mantra that caring is not an advantage…I _do_ care.  I care so much, John.” 

John’s expression softened.  “I believe you, Sherlock.  But the way you talked to Irene tonight, as if you despised the very notion of it…”

“John, don’t you understand?  I despised Irene for allowing herself to get so attached to me that she endangered herself.  But it was only because I’d already made the same mistake with you.” 

John looked affronted.  “I’m a mistake, then?!  Ta, very much!”  He folded his arms. 

Sherlock sat back down on the end of the bed by John’s feet.  “I know it doesn’t sound romantic for me to call this…” he gestured between the two of them, “…a mistake.  I can’t help it, that’s how I see it.  But I do hope you’ll give me credit for finally realizing that I no longer want to _correct_ the mistake.”  John gave him an incredulous look.  Sherlock threw up his hands, “Oh come on!  if you were to analyze the greatest romances in the world, haven’t most of them started out as an error in judgment?” 

John snorted.  “That’s not how most people would see it, but…point taken.”  He looked down at his hands.  “So…so, now you’re okay with calling this a romantic adventure?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up.  “I did confess to you my affinity for pirates.”  John closed his eyes, fighting to contain the smile that was threatening.  Sherlock knew he’d gotten to him.  “John, one of the reasons I’ve fought against this for so long is because I didn’t think I could be what you would want in a romantic partner.  When I realised tonight that you do have feelings for me, it made me want to _try_.  But I need to know that you accept me for who I am, that my way of seeing the world is never going to be as warm and fuzzy as yours.”

John blinked rapidly, his face scrunched up as if fighting tears.  “I do accept that part of you, Sherlock.  If I didn’t, I would have walked away after the Moriarty case.  I just have a hard time believing that you accept _my_ warm and fuzzy point of view.”

Sherlock smiled at him tenderly.  “If you were my adversary, then I would absolutely scorn you for it.  But you’re not.  You’re my ally.  More than that…you’re my champion.  It’s what I love about you the most.”

John made a noise that was almost a whimper.  His voice rough, he breathed, “Love?”

Sherlock gazed at him adoringly, this time without the excuse of a case.  “I love you, John Watson.”

John’s face crumpled in relief, and then tears sprang to his eyes as he broke out into a silly grin.  He opened up his arms.  “Come here, you mad man.”

Sherlock’s grin was just as goofy as he scrambled up the bed to where John was waiting, draping himself on top of John as his arms went around Sherlock’s shoulders.  Sherlock pressed his lips to John, overwhelmed by the tenderness that he felt coursing through him.  He lifted his head and gazed down at John, who looked just as overwhelmed as he whispered, “I love you, too, Sherlock Holmes.”  He lifted his head to capture Sherlock’s lips again. 

Sherlock gave a blissful sigh, settling into John’s arms.  The sigh turned into a groan as John tilted his head so he could suck on his lower lip. 

John ran his hand up Sherlock’s back, then groused.  “Why are you still wearing your suit? Didn’t you ever get to bed?”

Sherlock shook his head as he sat up to shuck off his jacket.  “I was going to, but then I saw the sheets and that was when I knew you loved me.”

John gave him a bewildered look.  “You knew I loved you because I washed your sheets?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he pulled off his shoes.  “You know my methods, John.  I extrapolate and come to the only logical conclusion.”

John giggled.  “You should blog about it on your website.  ‘How I deduced John’s feelings by the state of my sheets.’”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, unbuttoning his shirt.  “I think people would probably interpret that title in a very different way.”

John doubled over with laughter.  “Oh god, that made me think of what we did to that hotel bed.”  He gazed up at Sherlock hopefully.  “At some point…maybe you’ll get to see what your bed looks like after sex.” 

“I look forward to it.  For tonight, though, it’s your bed that’s going to become rather untidy.”

John’s eyes ran up and down Sherlock’s torso as he yanked his shirt off.  “So, you’re amenable to that?  It’s not too soon for you?”

Sherlock paused in the act of unbuckling his trousers.  “Why do you think I’m getting undressed?" 

John’s eyes twinkled.  “I thought you were only taking a few things off so we could have a more comfortable snog.  Not complaining, though.”

Sherlock huffed in exasperation.  “Don’t tell me _you_ think it’s too soon!  We’ve been living together a year, and going out on dates for the past two months!”

John gave him a rueful smile.  “That was for a case.”  He held up his hand as Sherlock was about to protest.  “It’s not too soon for me, Sherlock.  I want you so badly…I just…I know you’re inexperienced and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable by rushing things.”

Sherlock sniffed as he continued undoing his trousers.  “You think I’ll be overwhelmed, want to stop.  I assure you, John, that lack of experience does not translate to lack of desire.  At least not where you’re concerned.”  He discarded his trousers and climbed into bed in only his boxers.  He shimmied under the covers to nestle up against John, who took him in his arms again.  “John, I’ve been fantasising about this for god knows how long.  I don’t think I can wait another minute…another _second_ to have you.”  

John shivered and tightened his hold.  “You have me, Sherlock.  All of me.”  They kissed again, and it felt incredible with the two of them lying in bed together, their bare legs tangling, soft and warm. 

John’s hands were on his back again, this time on his bare skin and it was glorious.   Only one little nitpick… “John, now you’re the one who’s overdressed.”  John chuckled as he pulled off his vest, then went back to kissing Sherlock.  Oh yes, this was _much_ better.  Skin to skin.  He’d never, ever felt anything like this before.  Unlike his previous experiences, Sherlock wanted to touch John everywhere.  With his hands, with his mouth.  He broke off the kiss, gasping at the flood of arousal.  “John!  I need to…”

John was breathing hard.  “What do you need, love?” 

Sherlock closed his eyes.  “ _That_.  I need you to keep calling me that.  But I also need to see you.  All of you.”  He pushed gently at John’s shoulders until he was flat on his back.  He was momentarily distracted by the rough feel of John’s scar underneath his hand.  As his gaze went to John’s shoulder, he felt him stiffen slightly.  His eyes went back to John’s, and John wordlessly pulled him down into a kiss.  Clearly the scar was not something he wanted to address at the moment. 

Sherlock began to kiss his way down his torso.  He licked at John’s nipples, filing away in his mind the way John’s body jerked beneath him.  He continued on, cataloging the warm, soft smell of John’s skin, the fine hair dappling his navel, the way his breathing intensified as Sherlock neared the waistband of his boxer briefs.

John’s cock was straining against his briefs, and it sent a surge of satisfaction through Sherlock that he could affect John this way.  Anticipation shivered through him.  He’d always known that he desired men, that his gaze lingered on the male form.  But any contemplation of their anatomy had been purely academic until now.  He wanted badly to see John’s cock, taste it, have it in his mouth and in his arse.  Sherlock had never felt so stripped down to his basest desires, never trusted anyone enough to see him like this.  He looked up at John, who was gazing at him with desire, love, and _worship_. 

There was also the tiniest bit of uncertainty, which Sherlock realised was because John remembered what he’d said about blowjobs.  Sherlock’s lips curved into a filthy smile, assuring John with his eyes that he was _exactly_ where he wanted to be.  Sherlock peeled back the waistline to free John’s cock, and took it in his hand.  Above him, he could hear John whimpering as he proceeded to nuzzle it, taste it, and then finally took it into his mouth. 

“Oh fuck, Sherlock!  Oh jesus fuck.”  John gasped as Sherlock swirled his tongue around the head, and it sent jolts of arousal to his own cock.  Sherlock wasn’t able to take him in very far – John was just as big as he’d deduced and wasn’t that a delight?  He kept his hand wrapped around the base as he explored every inch with his tongue and lips, softly caressing his balls with his other hand.  “Sherlock,” John panted, “I’m not gonna last.  Christ, look at you.”

Sherlock peeked up through his lashes, and saw that John looked wrecked.  The sight had him moaning around John’s cock.  The vibrations must have sent John over the edge because he began coming into Sherlock’s mouth.  Sherlock pulled off in surprise, but he kept stroking with his hand.  John spurted some more, and Sherlock felt it landing on his face.  John let out a string of curses as he stared at him, and Sherlock remembered from perusing some of John’s porn that it was considered arousing to ejaculate on someone’s face.  With a wicked smile, he wiped off the bit that was on his cheek and put his finger into his mouth.  Bitter, but not off-putting.  John’s cock twitched one last time as he stared at Sherlock in wonder. 

Even as his own cock was still aching for release, Sherlock felt on top of the world.  This was better than any drug, deduction, or solved murder.  He had given pleasure to the one person that mattered the most.  John was looking at him like he hung the moon.  “Get up here, Sherlock,” the gravelly tone of John’s voice seemed to go straight to Sherlock’s cock.  He throbbed with need as he fumbled with his boxers to get them off, then awkwardly shuffled up the bed.

John took his discarded vest and gently wiped the cum off Sherlock’s face and other places where it had landed.  When he’d tossed it away, John rained kisses all over Sherlock’s face, telling him how beautiful and brilliant he was.  “John,” he keened.

John gave a wicked chuckle and reached down, cupping Sherlock’s erection.  Sherlock gasped.  “Remember that night in the alley, when we were kissing and you took my hand…”

Sherlock whined as John eased his hand up and down, the palm sliding against his shaft while his fingers curled over his balls.  “That was…a stupid thing for me to do.  Too much wine.  If you hadn’t pulled your hand away, you would have felt how aroused I was.”

“Like you are, now?”  Sherlock nodded shakily as John wrapped his fingers around his cock, gently squeezing as he pumped the length.  “God, Sherlock, I wanted more than anything to touch you.  It was the filthiest thing I’d ever seen when you put your hand in your pocket and stroked yourself.”

Sherlock breathed hard through his nose as John continued to stroke him, occasionally making gentle sweeps around his balls with his fingers.  Fluid was leaking out of the head of his cock and John used it to slick the way.  Meanwhile, John was nuzzling his neck, then capturing his earlobe with his teeth.  Sherlock whined again, his hips jerking, thrusting into John’s hands. 

John stopped and circled his fingers around the base of his erection.  “Don’t come yet, love.  Not until I’ve had you in my mouth.”  He placed his lips against Sherlock’s ear.  “I’ve wanted it since the first time we met.  When you winked at me like you _knew_ what it would do to me.”

Sherlock didn’t have time to process this revelation (of course he _hadn’t_ known) because John proceeded to slide down the length of Sherlock’s body and swallow down his cock.  Sherlock shouted as he was bombarded with sensations he’d never dreamed that he could feel.  Overwhelmed by the wet, hot slide of John’s lips against his shaft, he felt monumentally stupid for all the times he’d scorned others who engaged in this frankly phenomenal pastime. 

Sherlock felt the pressure building, and knew he wouldn’t last much longer.  Certainly not with the way that John’s hand reached up and started softly stroking his nipple until it stiffened into a hard nub.  When John pinched the nub, that triggered Sherlock’s release.  John had apparently been expecting it, because he kept his mouth on Sherlock as he came into his mouth. Sherlock was never one to swear, but he was quite vociferous as his orgasm went on and on. 

When it was over, and John gently disengaged his lips, tears sprang to Sherlock’s eyes.  Too many emotions were jumbled inside of him.  Happiness that he finally got to experience this with John, amazement that it could be this good, regret that up until now his only experience with sex had been as impersonal transactions.  “ _John_ ,” his breath hitched as the tears spilled over.

John was back up by his side, enfolding him in his arms.  “Shhh, it’s okay, love.  My beautiful Sherlock, I’ve got you.”  Sherlock clung to him, too exhausted to do anything but let his tears spend and sleep overcome him.


	10. Chapter 10

John’s alarm went off the next morning, rudely reminding him that he had skipped work yesterday to recover from the Williamson case, and had promised Sarah he’d be in today.  Before he had a chance to reach over and turn it off, an arm brushed against his torso to grab at the offending mobile.  _Sherlock_.  He turned his head, and sure enough, there was Sherlock gazing at him in reproach from beneath a mop of severely tousled curls.  John felt like his face was split open, so wide was his grin.  Sherlock simply glowered and then buried his face in John’s shoulder.  A muffled voice growled, “Don’t even think about leaving this bed.”

John felt a wave of fondness, and reluctantly responded, “Sherlock, I gave Sarah my word.  I’ve missed the last two days already.  I can’t keep skiving off.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance and sat up, flinging the covers off him.  “ _Fine_.  I’ll go down to my own bed.  It’s more comfortable anyway.”  He stood up, and John was so captivated by his naked body that he didn’t register at first that Sherlock was taking his robe.

“Hey!  I only have one of those, you git!  What am I gonna wear?”

Sherlock belted the robe, and seeing him wear something of his made John’s cock twitch.  Sherlock sauntered over to his chest of drawers.  “I have a suggestion.”  He opened the top drawer and pulled out the box of butt plugs from underneath his pants.  Tossing the box onto the bed, Sherlock gave John a swift peck on the lips, then smirked as he continued, “For after dinner, now that we have multiple things to celebrate.”

John’s jaw dropped as Sherlock swept from the room.

 

John spent the day barely able to concentrate on his work.  He kept reliving the previous night, when Sherlock had actually admitted that he loved him.  John understood his point of view, now.  Sherlock still believed that the softer emotions were a detriment to his work, but accepted that he _did_ feel them and would have to adjust his life accordingly.  That was fine with John.  If he were honest, he thought it was more romantic that Sherlock was staying true to himself.  John may want a Sherlock that was soft and tender, but the rest of the world needed his cold logic. 

He tried to focus on other things besides the night to come.  He’d worn the small plug as he got ready for work and had his breakfast, feeling almost disappointed that he had to take it out.  He knew what Sherlock must be planning, given their conversation not too long ago about John wanting to bottom.  It was just like Sherlock to fixate on the idea of giving John something that no one else had.  In truth, John was just as excited to be doing the same for him.  It would be Sherlock’s first time having penetrative sex.  Trying to banish these thoughts from his mind, John took a little too long to call in the next patient and Sarah was knocking on his door to find out if he was asleep on the job again. 

While John was stuck at the clinic, Sherlock was called in on a murder case by Lestrade.  Sherlock texted John questions about ligature marks and other such stuff.  John felt a trickle of worry that this new case would occupy Sherlock well into the evening.  As if reading his mind, Sherlock texted him that if he hadn’t solved the case by dinnertime, Lestrade could bloody well finish it himself.  John had to take a moment to allow himself the giddiness that coursed through him after reading it.

When John got home from the clinic, Sherlock was still out.  He showered, making sure to clean himself thoroughly, then inserted the medium plug.  After dinner he’d swap it out for the largest plug.  By the time they were ready for bed, he’d need little preparation.  John felt anticipation surge through him at the thought. 

When he went downstairs, he decided to continue his writeup of the Williamson case.  He never got the chance to finish it last night.  As he read what he’d written so far, he remembered that he’d planned to end his story by emphasizing that he and Sherlock were not together as they’d let everyone believe, that it had all been for the case.  What a difference 24 hours made.  He wondered how he should wrap it up instead.  He was still contemplating this when Sherlock burst through the door, his eyes zeroing in on John immediately. 

He stalked over to the desk and stared intently down at him.  “John,” he whispered.  There was a question in his eyes, and apprehension.  John understood at once.  Their day had been very typical, and last night did feel like it was almost a dream.  John stood up and placed his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, gently stroking.  “Hello, love.”

Sherlock closed his eyes in relief, pressing his own hand on top of John’s.  Then he swooped in for a quick kiss.  “Hello, John.”  His brow wrinkled slightly.  “I don’t seem to have an endearment for you.  Aren’t these things supposed to just roll off the tongue?”

John took his hand and squeezed it.  “I think in your case, my name is the endearment.  I love the way you say it.”

Sherlock gave a tiny smile.  “When I say John, I do mean it quite reverently.  John.  My John.”  He took a deep breath.  “Well, I suppose that’s one thing sorted.  There’s so much I don’t know about what I’m supposed to do.  Or what all’s supposed to change now that we’re romantically involved.”

John tugged his hand, leading him to the sofa so they could sit down.  “Not a whole lot, I imagine.  We already spend all our time together.  I think the main thing will be the sex.”  He waggled his eyebrows.  “And cuddling on the sofa when we watch crap telly.  I’ll probably expect a bit more consideration for my feelings.”  Sherlock huffed.  “And spending holidays together and all that.”

Sherlock glowered at him. “I wanted you to spend Christmas with me.  When you chose Harry, I thought that meant you didn’t care as much as I hoped.”

John’s eyes widened.  “Sherlock!  You said you thought all that was rubbish!  I went to Harry’s because I wanted to talk to her about my feelings for you.  I was just beginning to think we might have a chance together, but then Irene turned up dead, _supposedly_ , and you shut me out.  I needed someone to confide in.  She told me I should talk to you.  And I planned to, but when I came back you were moping about, composing music, pushing me away.  I figured you were mourning Irene.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.  “Irene?!  John, that music was about _you_.  About me trying to get over my feelings for you, so people would quit targeting you to get to me.”

John stared at him, aghast.  That beautiful, haunting melody that had made him feel sad right down to his bones…had been about _him_?  John groaned and grabbed the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, pulling him in for a kiss.  As their lips met, John let go of the lapels and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him in as tight as possible.  “Sherlock,” he murmured against his lips, “God, Sherlock, I’m sorry that I made you feel that way.”

Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s.  “I believe we’ve both been hurting each other.  When I realised last night that you’ve been thinking all this time that I thought less of you for wanting love in your life, I knew I had to fix it.  John, I was horribly jealous of your girlfriends, and hating myself for suddenly wanting something that went against all my lofty principles.  You turned my world upside down, John Watson.  And I’m sorry it took so long to finally stop fighting it.”

John felt a lump in his throat and was unable to respond.  He felt humbled by the idea that he could have had such an effect on the most brilliant man he’d ever known.  He finally managed a rough, “Sherlock,” before he was kissing him again.  Overcome by emotion and a desperate need to get closer, he climbed into Sherlock’s lap, straddling him. 

Sherlock seemed quite pleased by this, encircling John’s waist with his arms and tugging until they were flush against each other.  John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and rained kisses down his jawline.  He nipped at Sherlock’s throat, licking a stripe, tasting his sweat even as his nose caught a whiff of the London streets from his hair.  Sherlock groaned and started running his hands up and down along John’s rib cage, then wandered down to his arse, gripping it with both hands.  The action caused a slight shift in his plug and John gasped, shuddering at the sensation.  He leaned back a bit, and Sherlock gave him an enquiring look.  “It’s the plug I’m wearing.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened.  “ _John_.”  His tone dropped to that subsonic level and his fingers tightened on John’s arse.  Another ripple of sensation went through him. 

John shook his head.  “Jesus, Sherlock.  We can’t do this now.  _After_ dinner.”  He pulled Sherlock’s hands away and climbed out of his lap.  Sherlock looked like a child that was just told Father Christmas wasn’t real.  John leaned down and gave him a quick, hard peck on the lips.  “All in good time, love.”

Sherlock stood.  “Guess I’ll go take a shower, then.  A cold one.”  He glowered at John before stalking off to his room.  John giggled.  Sherlock was definitely not known for delaying gratification.  He went into the kitchen and began clearing off the various surfaces.

 

While they hadn’t exactly planned it this way, the meal they had chosen for their celebratory dinner was what John would consider to be sex-friendly.  Not being very skilled in cooking, they’d decided on salmon steaks with green beans (there was some fancy name Sherlock called them) and cous cous with pine nuts.

As they ate, Sherlock asked him more about ‘things couples do’ that would be expected of him.  John admitted that most of the ‘things couples do’ were activities that his girlfriends insisted upon and he had zero interest in.  A lot of it involved socializing with other couples, and they didn’t know any.  They barely had any friends, period.  There were also outings like museums and amusement parks, etc.  Sherlock said he’d been to all the museums in London, but if they ever went somewhere that had had a museum he hadn’t been to, he’d be happy to do that.  That reminded John about trips and he mentioned weekends away.  Sherlock waved his hand and said they already do that, and John had to remind him those were for cases.

They’d been finished eating for ages and were almost done with the bottle of wine when Mycroft showed up.  Sherlock grimaced.  “Now I’m in danger of indigestion.  What do you want, Mycroft?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.  “I merely wished to give you an update on Irene Adler.  You left rather quickly last night.”

“I left because I don’t care.  Now go away!”

“Don’t you even want to know the contents of her camera phone?  You were so keen to get into it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Because it was a locked box puzzle, you know I can’t resist those.”

Mycroft smirked.  “I would say you were also trying to make up for failing me _twice_ , but you’d deny it.”

Sherlock gave John a frustrated look.  “I think we should invest in a padlock for our door.  This is the second day in a row that someone has barged into the flat to irritate me when I have more important things to do.”

John was unable to suppress the pleased grin that grew, and looked down at his plate.  If Sherlock was equating Irene with his brother, there went the last of any doubts about her. 

John glanced up at Mycroft, who hadn’t moved.  He was giving them both an assessing look.  “What?”

“I was merely wondering why Sherlock would be celebrating his birthday two days early.”

John’s eyebrows shot up and he looked over at Sherlock.  “Your birthday is January sixth?”

Sherlock looked abashed.  “Yes,” he muttered, his cheeks pink. 

John grinned.  “We’ll have to do something, then.”  He looked up at Mycroft.  “We were celebrating the end of the Williamson case.  How did you know it was a special occasion?”

Mycroft looked smug at the opportunity to list his deductions.  “The candles.  The salmon.  The mostly empty bottle of wine.  But most telling is what you’re wearing.”

Sherlock groaned and John looked down at his outfit, confused.  He was just wearing his typical button-down and cardigan.  He looked back up at Mycroft and shrugged.

Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock.  “I’ll leave you to it, then.  Congratulations on… everything.”  He started towards the door, then paused on the threshold.  “I wonder what Moriarty’s _new_ nickname will be for you.”  With that, he left.

John went red and looked over at Sherlock.  “Okay, I guess he figured out we’re having sex.  What does that have to do with what I’m wearing?”

Sherlock put his head in his hands.  “John, you probably haven’t noticed, but you’re squirming a bit more than usual.”

John chuckled.  “Well, that’s because of the…”  Realisation dawned.  “ _Fuck_ ing hell.  Are you fucking kidding me?”

Sherlock dissolved into giggles.  “He clocked me wearing one when you were in Edinburgh.  Left right away without ordering me to solve whatever problem he’d brought with him.”

John gaped at Sherlock.  “Wait a minute, I took all the plugs with me on my trip.”

Sherlock gave him a wicked smile.  “Oh, didn’t I mention?  I went back to the shop.  Got a few more odds and ends.”

John’s jaw dropped.  “ _Sherlock_.” 

Sherlock’s smile grew even more filthy.  He stood up and started stacking their dishes.  “Why don’t I take care of cleaning up while you go put in the biggest size.  Let’s see how long we can last through a Bond movie.”

 

They lasted barely an hour.  Sherlock was sitting in his usual spot on the sofa while John put the movie in.  John went to sit down, but instead of _his_ usual spot, he sat down flush against Sherlock.  He rubbed his right hand up and down Sherlock’s thigh.  “All right?”  Sherlock’s shy smile and nod was completely adorable.

John kept his hand where it was, occasionally caressing, enjoying the slight twitch it evoked.  Sherlock settled into the sofa a bit more, casting his arm over the back of the sofa above John’s head. John used this opening to snuggle even closer to Sherlock, resting his head against Sherlock’s pec.  It felt utterly fantastic. At one point, John noticed that whenever he made a sweep of Sherlock’s thigh with his hand, Sherlock would open his legs a little farther.  John started allowing his hand to dip a little onto the inner thigh with each new pass.  He knew he was frustrating Sherlock, who was clearly hoping he’d at least be getting closer to his cock.  John deliberately maintained the same distance. 

“John,” Sherlock growled.

John nonchalantly replied, “Yes, Sherlock?”

“Am I not sending clear enough signals?  Do I need to hang a welcome sign on my cock?”

John turned his face into Sherlock’s shoulder and giggled, his shoulders shaking.  When he’d gotten a hold of himself, he shifted his body towards Sherlock and this time used his left hand to slide up Sherlock’s thigh until he was cupping him.  Sherlock dropped his head back on the sofa, letting out a satisfied gust of air.  “It’s a bit hard to watch the movie if you’re staring at the ceiling,” he murmured as he massaged Sherlock’s crotch.

“Fffffuck the movie,” purred Sherlock, his tongue clicking on the k sound.  “I’ve been waiting for this all bloody day.”  He lifted his head and gazed at John, and he could see that Sherlock’s pupils were already blown wide.  “I researched first time bottoming on my mobile right there at the crime scene, John.  I know it took me two hours longer than it should have to solve the case because all I could think about was which position I wanted to have you in.”

John hitched in a breath.  “And what did you decide?”

Sherlock gave him a rueful smile.  “Well, I ended up asking Lestrade his opinion, since he has experience with this sort of thing.”  John gazed at him in horror. “He got this look on his face, kind of like the one you have now, and told me to bugger off.  I said that’s the general idea, but I needed to know what position is best.  He wouldn’t speak to me for another hour, then finally told me it should be up to you.”    

John didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.  He settled on a few mortified giggles.  Shaking his head, he gazed at Sherlock, who reached out his hand to cup John’s cheek.  “If you’re not sure what you’d like, I read some suggestions about what feels best the first time.”

John leaned over and kissed Sherlock.  “I do believe you’re more nervous about my first time than yours.”  Indeed, Sherlock’s eyes were wide and apprehensive.  It was one of his most endearing traits, that Sherlock could be obnoxiously confident in areas where he has knowledge, but becomes quite diffident with things outside of his expertise.  “It’ll be fine, Sherlock.  Sex can be just as awkward and messy as anything else in life, so it’s best not to have any expectations beyond the pleasure of being naked with someone.”

Sherlock nodded, exhaling through his nose as John kissed along his cheekbone.  “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve assumed this will take place in my bedroom.  I’ve procured lubricant and condoms.  I know both of us are clean.  You didn’t sleep with Jeanette and you were tested before her.  It’s been so long since I’ve done anything requiring testing that my results are collecting dust in a drawer.  The condoms are so we make less of a mess our first time and also to decrease sensation to my cock so I’ll last longer.”  He gasped when John nipped his earlobe.  “There’s a possibility I’ll come embarrassingly quickly once I’m inside you.  _John_.”  He shuddered as John licked at the shell of his ear.

“Your bedroom works for me, Sherlock.  Why don’t we go now before things get out of hand?”  Sherlock launched himself up off the sofa, and John giggled as he fell back.  “Eager, are we?”

Sherlock held out his hand.  “Yes,” he said simply, his voice already rough.

John took his proffered hand and they quickly made their way back to Sherlock’s bedroom.  Once inside, Sherlock closed and locked the door.  Raising one eyebrow, he said, “Mrs. Hudson came in one time to do some hoovering.  She thought I was out.  I…wasn’t.  I’ve been a little paranoid since then.”

John grinned as he stepped up to Sherlock and threaded his arms into Sherlock’s jacket and around his waist.  “Yes, it’s better not to be interrupted.  I noticed you left your mobile out there.”

Sherlock circled his arms around John’s shoulder, nuzzling at his hair.  “I want no distractions, no interruptions.  It’s important that you be relaxed.  That’s what I read, it’s easier if you’re relaxed.”

John rubbed his back.  “The same goes for you, Sherlock.  Remember what I said - even if all we accomplish is getting naked, that’s still a good time in my books.”

Sherlock tilted his head down, nuzzling against John’s ear.  “I certainly enjoyed last night’s naked time.  _Immensely_.”

John shifted his head so their noses were nuzzling.  “So did I, love.  I think the only thing I’d like to do differently is take it a bit slower.  Explore a bit.  We were both so eager last night, and tired as hell.  Tonight we’re well-rested and we have all the time in the world.  I want to see more of that gorgeous body of yours.”    

Sherlock shucked his jacket like he did last night, but before he could start on his buttons, John rested a hand on his chest.  “Let me.”  Sherlock dropped his hands, and John rested both of his on Sherlock’s pectorals.  He caressed up and down, sweeping his thumb across Sherlock’s nipples, which were already hard.  Then he slowly began unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt.  He was wearing the black one, which was definitely in the top two of John’s favourite shirts.  John remembered he wore it that day they met Irene Adler for the first time. 

John’s fingers paused on one of the buttons, and he found himself curling them until he was fisting the fabric.  Was it really only yesterday that they’d come home to find her in Sherlock’s bed?  John looked over at it.  When he was putting the sheets on yesterday, he never would have guessed that he’d be in them tonight.  The whole thing still felt like a dream.  How many times had he fantasised about this? 

John continued to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt.  “You mentioned you did research on positions.  What did you find out?”  He finished with the buttons and smoothed his hand up Sherlock’s chest, skating his fingers over a nipple on the way back down.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed in pleasure.  “Mmm…it said that first timers may prefer to start out straddling their top so they can have control over the penetration.”

John licked his lips as he thought about it.  “I guess I can understand that.  It makes sense.  I just...don’t know if that’s what I want to do the first time.”  He curled his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders, drawing his shirt down his arms until it dropped to the floor.  “I trust you, Sherlock.  I know you’ll be able to read me.  I know you’ll control yourself so you won’t hurt me.  I’m honestly glad the first time I’m doing this is with you.  I can’t imagine anyone else who would be able to take care of me the way you would.”

Sherlock gave him that smile that said John confirmed something he had deduced.  He cupped John’s face.  “I will, John.  I will take care of you.”  He peeled off John’s cardigan, then began on his shirt. He only undid a few buttons and then directed John to lift his arms so he could pull it over his head.  He ran his hands up and down John’s arms, then back up to his shoulders.  He gently massaged the muscle there.  John moaned a little.  “Let’s get our trousers off.  I want you on the bed.”

John eagerly complied.  When they were both down to their pants, Sherlock gave him a long, sensual kiss, and then whispered, “Lie down for me, John.  On your stomach, please.”

John shivered as he climbed onto the bed, face down and stretched out.  This was everything he’d dreamed of.  He felt the bed dip as Sherlock joined him.  He straddled John, just below his arse, so that his cock was nestled between John’s arse cheeks.  John shivered again, stilling only when he felt Sherlock’s hands on his back, massaging him.  His hands seemed to be everywhere.  Carding through his hair, stroking his neck, gliding along his spine.  He could also occasionally feel Sherlock’s lips caressing his skin.  John felt like he could melt right into the sheets.

One of Sherlock’s hands massaged his arse, and then the fingers were dipping lower.  He felt it the moment when Sherlock found the base of the plug and pressed gently against it. John’s body spasmed at the sensation.  Sherlock draped over his back and rained kisses over his scalp.  His lips pressed against John’s ear, and he whispered, “May I take it out?” 

John nodded, and Sherlock kissed him along his neck, his hand stroking down his back to return to his arse.  Sherlock was gentle in removing the plug, but John shuddered all the same at both the sensation and the thought of how delightfully obscene it was that Sherlock was doing this. 

Sherlock sat up, and John immediately missed the feel of his warm body.  He understood why in a moment, when he heard the snick of what had to be a bottle of lube.  “John, I’m going to insert a finger to see for myself how stretched out you are, if that’s alright.”

John nodded again, thrilling at the notion.  He’d certainly enjoyed the plugs, but they were inanimate objects.  When he felt Sherlock’s well-lubricated finger slide in, it felt incredibly intimate.  After a few moments, he’d found John’s prostate, gently brushing against it.  “ _Sherlock_ ,” he moaned.

Sherlock rubbed John’s back with his other hand.  “This feels wonderful, John.  I’m touching a part of you that no one else has.  I know that I shouldn’t be pleased by this.  It’s remarkably possessive.  Nonetheless…”

John moaned a little louder at the feeling of Sherlock exploring him.  “I can hardly judge, Sherlock.  I feel honoured that I’m the only one you’ve wanted to experience this with.”

Sherlock curled up next to John.  “I’m completely yours, John.  I’m the one that’s honoured.”  He placed his hand on John’s shoulder and eased him so that he was on his side facing Sherlock.  “I thought we could lay here for a while, touching and tasting each other.  I need you to touch me, John.”

John felt overwhelmed by this plea.  As if he could ever reject it.  He ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s flank, admiring his perfect alabaster skin and the incongruity of soft flesh over hard muscle, reveling over the way those same muscles twitched at the contact of John’s fingers.  “Oh Sherlock, there are so many things that I cannot wait to do with you.” 

He leaned over and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s nipple, teasing it with the tip of his tongue.  At the same time his hand wandered down to Sherlock’s cock and gently stroked it.  Sherlock whimpered, and he combed his fingers through John’s hair, nuzzling it with his nose as John continued to lave at the hardened nub.  “I love your hair, John.  I’ve been secretly trying to catalogue how many shades of color I can find in it.”

John smiled.  “So you weren’t shamming when you wrote that comment on my blog?”

He could feel Sherlock shake his head.  “Nope.”

John tilted his head back, so that their noses collided, and he pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s gorgeous lips.  “I wasn’t shamming about your eyes.  God, they’re mesmerizing.  I have to force myself not to get lost in them.” 

Sherlock’s cheeks went pink, and he tried to fight a smile.  He pulled John into a tighter embrace, kissing him with fervour.  His hands wandered down to John’s arse, taking obvious delight in massaging the cheeks.  His fingers occasionally sweeping down to his arsehole, probing gently. 

John felt his heart hammer in his chest.  “Sherlock.  I want… _please_.”

Sherlock’s smile was both fond and wicked.  He gently pushed against John’s shoulder, directing him to lay on his back.  As Sherlock knelt between his legs, John couldn’t help but smile as he realised that Sherlock had deduced the position that he really wanted.  The bit earlier about riding him was obviously Sherlock’s way of saying that he wouldn’t have minded if John needed to be in control.  But he knew the truth.  Somehow, he _knew_ that John wanted the opposite. 

Most of his sexual encounters had been him in charge.  It seemed as if most of the women he dated were attracted to his soldier persona and wanted him to dominate them in the bedroom.  Which was fine, he certainly enjoyed it.  He looked forward to it with Sherlock.  But he’d always longed for the chance to cede control to someone else.  To be penetrated, vulnerable.  It was the ultimate act of faith.  This was what he hadn’t felt comfortable telling Sherlock during that discussion about bottoming.  But Sherlock had deduced it anyways.  John didn’t always like it when Sherlock could read him so well, but in this instance it was perfect. 

Sherlock was once again probing.  This time with two fingers, stretching and stroking.  He was also stroking John’s cock with his other hand, occasionally bending down to apply his mouth to it.  John felt overwhelmed by all the sensation, worried a little that he would come soon.  “Sherlock, _please_.  I’m ready.  Just…I want you inside me when I come.”

Sherlock withdrew his fingers.  He reached for a condom and rolled it onto his cock, and John felt his anticipation spike.  Then Sherlock covered John’s body with his, kissing him, whispering his name over and over.  He was shaking slightly, and John knew he was nervous.  John stroked his back, “You’re doing wonderfully, love.  I trust you.  Please…”

Sherlock used his hand to position his cock at John’s entrance.   He massaged at the hole with the head, and John could feel that he’d put copious amounts of lube on it.  It was obviously more blunt than the plugs had been, but John made himself relax.  Sensing that some of John’s tension had eased, Sherlock inserted the head, stopping once it was in.  John trembled at the pain.  He looked up at Sherlock, who was propped up on his elbows and looked absolutely wrecked.  John lovingly stroked his shoulders and arms.  They had now entered uncharted territory and both were overcome by it.

When the pain subsided, John nodded for him to keep going.  It went on like this, Sherlock inching his way inside, paying attention to John’s cues.  In a matter of time, Sherlock was fully seated, and John felt triumphant.  Sherlock was panting in his ear, groaning his name.  John squeezed his shoulder.  “We did it, babe. It’s good.  I just..I need you to move.  I need to feel you.  Feel more.  _Please_.”

Sherlock groaned again, shuddering.  He started to thrust, slowly at first, then picking up speed at John’s encouragement.  John wrapped his legs around Sherlock, his knees up high by his armpits.  He felt Sherlock try out a few different angles, until he found the one that reliably hit John’s prostate.  The brilliant sensations had John cursing, but even that quickly became incoherent.  Sherlock seemed to manage a litany of “John!” and “Fuck!” over and over in between panting kisses. 

For a while, John was content to let his cock slide between their two thrusting bodies, but when his orgasm started to build, so did his need to feel more pressure.  He eased his right leg down so he could better reach his cock, and took hold of it.  Sherlock looked down at what he was doing, and his breath hitched, obviously turned on at the sight of his cock thrusting in and out as John simultaneously jerked himself off.  Sherlock buried his head in John’s shoulder, and he felt the stuttering motion of his body.  He knew this was a sign that Sherlock was close to coming himself. 

Following an instinct, John breathed, “Sherlock, I want you to sit up and fuck me harder.”  Sherlock gasped and John knew he had got it right.  Sherlock sat up, grasping John’s hips as he started thrusting more forcefully.  He was staring down at John’s cock, his panting increased as he was more turned on than ever.  John felt him seize up and hunch over, his hips stuttering as his orgasm overtook him. 

John sped up his hand as he stared into the beautiful face of the man he loved, who was experiencing the sensation of coming inside someone for the first time.  It triggered his own release, and he was shouting as fluid shot everywhere.  This time it landed on his own face.  Sherlock stared, transfixed, his hips slowly coming to a stop.  

John took his hand and pulled him back down until Sherlock was lying on top of him again.  He stroked Sherlock’s back, knowing that he would need some time to come down from such a spike in hormones.  He himself was feeling overwhelmed.  Tears pricked his eyes, and he didn’t fight it.  He squeezed his eyes shut as his body wracked with a sob.  John felt Sherlock lift his head and then his thumb wipe at one of his tears.  Sherlock kissed another one, in the same way that John had kissed his tears at New Year’s.  Realizing now that they must have been genuine, John felt another sob shudder through him. 

Sherlock was raining kisses all over his face.  “John, I love you so much.  _So much_.”

Eventually, Sherlock eased out his softened cock, and John rolled them so that they were side by side.  “We need to clean up, love.”  He made to get up, but Sherlock stayed him with his hand.  He disposed of his used condom and then went to the bathroom to fetch a flannel.  With gentleness and reverence, he cleaned John off, and he never felt so loved as in that moment.  Sherlock climbed into the bed and gathered John to him, and they both clung to each other as they succumbed to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

The Williamson case, and Sherlock and John’s involvement in it, became a media sensation.  If the counter hadn’t been broken, Sherlock was sure that the number of hits to John’s blog would have multiplied exponentially.  Sherlock briefly considered deleting his e-mail account because it seemed to be all questions about their relationship.  The newspaper headlines were utterly ridiculous.  _Undercover Holmes Under The Covers_ was John’s favourite.  The gossip columnist who had written the New Year’s Eve piece was crowing over the idea that they could have put one over on him.  “I know a real kiss when I see it.  Maybe they were still deluded in thinking it was _just for a case_ , but I certainly wasn’t!”

Thankfully, not all the focus was on them.  The case itself was very controversial and set off a heated dialogue across the country about hate crimes, especially in light of the revelation about the real reason Pringle died.  He’d been a beloved television staple in many homes.  John didn’t mention Pringle by name in his writeup on the blog, in the naïve desire to respect his privacy.  But it came out anyway, since the specific charges against Williamson were a matter of public record. 

Sherlock and John agreed to only one interview about the case on the caveat that they would not discuss their personal lives.  Although John did talk a little about why the case affected him so much, explaining a bit about his closeted background.

When they got back from the interview, John sat heavily on the sofa and sighed deeply.  Sherlock went into the kitchen and began to make tea.  John smiled gratefully.  “It’s your birthday, Sherlock, shouldn’t I be making _you_ tea?”

“You’re right, it _is_ my birthday, John,” he said as he set up the tea tray, “…which is why I would like my tea to be prepared correctly.”

John chuckled.  “Berk.”  He sat gazing at Sherlock as he measured out the leaves.  “Thanks for wearing the purple shirt, it looks fantastic on you.”

Sherlock shrugged as if it were no burden.  In fact, he’d planned to wear it anyway.  He brought the tea tray over to the sofa and served John a cup.  John took a sip and moaned appreciatively.  “Brilliant.”  Sherlock felt a little shiver.  John had been moaning quite a bit in the past few days.  It was starting to trigger a pavlovian response.

Sherlock was looking forward to tonight.  Much like John did two days ago, he’d been preparing himself as the day went on with increasingly larger plugs (he’d even worn one during the television interview, out of spite).  John had mentioned that it made things a lot easier.  Even though Sherlock hadn’t explicitly said that this was what he wanted for his birthday, the sheer number of questions he’d asked John about his experience likely made it obvious.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in a leisurely fashion, John answering comments on his blog and Sherlock scrolling through the influx of e-mails for potential clients.  To his surprise, there were a handful that actually seemed intriguing.  

He was puzzling over one in particular when he felt John’s arms envelop him.  “It’s dinnertime, love.  I want to take you out for your birthday.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.  “Are you sure that’s a wise idea?  We were just on television today, so we’re bound to be noticed.”

John came around the chair and slid into his lap.  “Not where we’re going.  I asked Mycroft to recommend someplace small and discreet.  He not only told me of a place, he got us reservations and offered to foot the bill.  As a birthday present.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose.  “Now that’s the sort of present I can appreciate from Mycroft.  It doesn’t involve seeing him in person.  Shall I go change?”

John shook his head.  “No, I forbid you to change out of that shirt.  It’s only coming off when I take it off later tonight.”  Sherlock chuckled, even as he blushed.  “I do want to change, though.  I’ll be right back.”

When John came back downstairs, he was wearing his tux jacket and trousers, but he wore a shirt the same shade of blue as his eyes.  Like Sherlock, he went without a tie.  Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off John.  He looked _delicious_.  Sherlock briefly debated the merits of convincing John to stay in and go straight to bed.  But judging by the way his eyes sparkled, he was looking forward to taking Sherlock out.  For John’s sake he would go, and he might even try to have a good time.

When they got to the restaurant and were being led to their table, Sherlock realised he would have a good time after all.  It was very small, and just as discreet as Mycroft had promised.  It also had a jazz band and tiny dance floor.  Sherlock’s eyes flew to John, who was looking at him with a smirk.  “I thought you might like that,” he said softly.  He reached out and took Sherlock’s hand, squeezing it as they arrived at their table. 

Sherlock was reliably certain that the food was excellent, but he didn’t taste any of it.  The only thing he could take in was John, radiating with happiness.  He was clearly enjoying his meal, and amazingly enough, Sherlock’s company.  He wondered if perhaps he wouldn’t be rubbish at this whole relationship thing after all.  John didn’t order dessert, saying he had something at home.  When the band started to play a slow song, he pulled Sherlock out to the dance floor. 

It turned out to be much more enjoyable than New Year’s Eve.  This time it was real.  John was in his arms because he wanted to be there, not for a case.  It was sheer bliss to sway to the music, his cheek resting against the top of John’s head.  “Sherlock?”  He hummed in response.  “What was the real reason you said teaching me to dance would be a bad idea?”

Sherlock chuckled.  “You haven’t figured it out?”

“Mmm, I have an idea.  I just want it confirmed.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, and he let the music wash over him a few moments before he spoke.  “During the Williamson case, all those times we touched each other…as time went on, it just _hurt_ more and more.  Especially near the end, because I never knew if each time would be the last.  When we danced, and I brought up the idea of teaching you, I knew immediately that it was a mistake.  I couldn’t bear the idea of being this close to you for yet another platonic purpose.”

John pulled back a little and gazed up at him.  “And if I promise to make the dance lessons as nonplatonic as possible?  Will you teach me?”

Sherlock bit his lip to stifle a giggle.  “Nonplatonic dance lessons?  That sounds intriguing.  All right, then.  I’d be happy to teach you.”

John beamed at him.  “Brilliant!  I’ll be sure to come up with at least one filthy advance per lesson.”

They danced through a couple more songs and then lingered over coffee.  As they rode in the taxi on the way to Baker street, John took his hand.  “I know that you don’t really go in for this sort of thing, but I have a surprise waiting for you at home and I hope you’ll indulge me.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose.  So did the cabbie’s, he saw in the rearview mirror’s reflection.  It made him snort with laughter.  He realised he was tipsy from the bottle of wine and the whisky in his coffee.  “Well, John, I suppose I’m up for anything with the right amount of lubrication.”  At the strangled noise from the front seat, Sherlock started giggling.  John gave him an incredulous look, but then he too joined in.  “I meant… _God_!  I meant alcohol, John.  Libatious lubrication.”  He said the last two words very carefully.  John was wheezing with laughter. 

“Jesus, Sherlock!  I wasn’t suggesting anything that would require any type of lubricant, alcohol or otherwise.  Just…keep an open mind.”  Sherlock snorted again and they both dissolved into giggles.  John was clearly tipsy as well.  “Okay, I’m not going to say anymore.  I can’t think of how to word it without it coming out wrong.”

They arrived at Baker street and climbed out of the cab.  Sherlock saw that John gave the cabbie a generous tip.  He took several deep breaths of the night air, wondering what John had planned.  It became evident when he opened the door of the flat.  “Surprise!”  He blinked when he saw Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly standing in the kitchen with party hats on.  They were circled around the table, which had a cake on it.  Now Sherlock understood John’s cryptic comments.  He pasted on a smile, which was only a little fake.  He did appreciate that John went to some effort, and that these people cared enough to attend.  It just meant a delay before he could get John alone. 

Mrs. Hudson came over and pulled his scarf so he would bend a little, and gave him a kiss on the cheek.  She whispered in his ear, “We promise not to be here too long.  Just a slice of cake and then we’ll let you two be alone.”  Sherlock couldn’t help but give her an indulgent smile.  Lestrade came over and shook his hand, and pointed to a small stack of cold case files that he’d placed on the coffee table with a bow on top.  Molly also gave him a peck on the cheek, and said that she left something in the fridge for him.  It was in the left crisper, and he probably should wait until John wasn’t around to open it. 

Molly’s manner was much more relaxed around him since New Year’s.  She confided to him that she was quite crushed to see the picture of him and John in the newspaper.  But she realised later that it made her feel better knowing that she never would have stood a chance with him, and only wished she’d known sooner that he was gay.  He was once again exasperated that someone who knew him well hadn’t figured it out on their own.

As promised, Mrs. Hudson shooed everyone out after less than an hour.  When John closed the door of the flat, he glanced sheepishly at Sherlock. “I hope that wasn’t too torturous for you.”

“Hmmm, it actually wasn’t too bad.  I guess sex has mellowed me.”

John’s lips curved into a smile.  “Well, I guess I need to keep you well fucked from now on.”

Sherlock gave him a knowing look.  “Speaking of which, you’re not the only one who is _full_ of surprises tonight.”  He smirked at his little joke.  During the cake thing, he’d popped into the bathroom and inserted the jeweled butt plug.  He took John’s hand and led him back to the bedroom.

John saw that there was a pillow lying in the middle of the bed with a towel covering it and he raised his eyebrows questioningly.  Sherlock smiled wickedly and sat down to remove his shoes and socks.  “You’re the one who gave me the idea, John.”  He stood and removed his trousers, setting them aside.  “I honestly didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to do this.  I thought it would stay a fantasy.”  He also removed his boxers, so that the only thing left was his purple shirt. 

John’s breathing was a little shaky at this point.  He was smiling in that way that said he didn’t know what was going on, but he was looking forward to finding out.  He stared down at where Sherlock’s erection was tenting the front of his shirt.  “How…how did you deduce that it’s a fantasy of mine to see you in just your purple shirt?”

Sherlock beamed at him.  “I didn’t have to deduce it, John.  You told me yourself, in a manner of speaking.”  He climbed onto the bed, and paused on all fours as he looked back over his shoulder.  The expression on John’s face was priceless.  Sherlock felt a thrill of triumph. 

“Sherlock,” John said in a choked whisper.  “You…oh my god.  This is supposed to be your birthday, not mine.”  He stepped forward and placed his hands on Sherlock’s arse, spreading him open to see the plug better.  “Incredible.” 

Sherlock sat up, propped on his ankles.  “Do you want the shirt on or off?  I’ve imagined it both ways.”

John drew in a shaky breath.  “We’ll have you leave it on another time.  If that pillow means what I think it means, I’m going to want to feast my eyes on your gorgeous back.”

Sherlock practically purred at his answer.  He shifted so that he was facing John.  “You’re far too dressed.  I want you naked.  Quickly!” 

John went into a flurry of activity, yanking off various articles of clothing as he intently watched Sherlock slowly unbutton his shirt with one hand while he stroked his erection with the other.  He finished just as Sherlock had undone the last button.  He came back over to Sherlock and ran his hand up and down the part of his torso exposed by the open shirt.  He pulled back the shirt slightly in order to rain kisses on Sherlock’s clavicle.  John looped his arm around Sherlock’s waist and tugged so that Sherlock rose up on his knees.  They were flush against each other now, Sherlock’s erection pressed against John’s belly. 

He shivered as John licked and nipped and kissed all over his upper torso while his hands massaged Sherlock’s arse, teasing his fingers against the plug.  Sherlock’s head fell back, taking deep, shuddering breaths as he catalogued the sensations.  Then, before he knew what was happening, John was sliding down to his knees and taking his cock into his mouth. 

Sherlock wondered if he would ever get used to the sensation of John’s hot, wet mouth.  Or the fact that John seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.  Sherlock had spent so much of his life feeling alone, thinking that was all that he had and ever would have.  There would be no such thing as give and take, no such thing as mutual enjoyment.  That was, until…  “ _John_.”  He squeezed John’s shoulder to indicate that he needed a moment lest he come too quickly. 

John stood up, and with shaking hands he slid the purple shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders and set it aside.  Sherlock turned and lay down on his stomach.  The pillow was positioned such that his hips were slightly raised.  He knew this pose would emphasise the jewel winking from between his arse cheeks.  He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that John looked like he’d died and gone to heaven.  He buried his face in his arm to hide his smug grin. At that moment he felt John sliding his fingers over the cleft of his arse, and shivered in anticipation of what was to come.

John gave a slight twist to the plug, eliciting a moan from Sherlock.  John gave an appreciative hum and commented, “If we ever do get the chance to dress up as pirates for Halloween, you should absolutely wear this.  I can pretend to search for buried treasure in your…”

“Oh god, don’t you dare…”

“…pirate’s booty.”

Sherlock groaned even as they both dissolved into giggles.  “It’s a good thing you have a huge cock, or I’d throw you out for that.”

“Mmmm, you mean this?”  Sherlock felt John’s cock being slapped against his arse. 

“ _John_ ,” he whined, and then ground out through gritted teeth, “Take out that damned plug and fuck me!”

John’s hands rubbed soothingly over his back, as he rained kisses over his shoulder blades.  “Patience, my love.  Remember what you said about being relaxed?”

Sherlock growled, “I don’t want to relax.  I want….”  He gasped as John’s kisses descended down to his arse and he began nipping and nuzzling the tender flesh there.  

“Christ but your arse is utter perfection.  I have so many plans for it.  But please continue what you were going to say?  What do you want, Sherlock?”

Sherlock could feel John easing out the plug, and he trembled with eagerness.  “I want you inside me.  I want to be surrounded by you.  Feel your skin against mine everywhere.  _Please_.”

John breathed out a shaky laugh.  “Oh Sherlock, you don’t know what it does to me when you say please.”  He went into the nightstand for the lube and a condom.  He used his fingers to prep Sherlock, the sensation making his breath turn shallow.  Sherlock wasn’t surprised when John found his prostate immediately, he was a doctor after all.  He gave it only a small, teasing brush, but it was enough to make Sherlock’s erection hard as granite as he ground his hips into the pillow. 

John whimpered a little as he guided the head of his cock at Sherlock’s entrance.  “Sherlock, this is…you’re so beautiful, stretched out before me.  I’ve never wanted anyone more in my life.”  He pushed gently inside, even as Sherlock was melting from his words.  He took deep, calming breaths as John slowly eased his way in. 

When he was fully seated, John draped himself across Sherlock’s back.  Sherlock’s hands were resting on either side of his head, and John placed his hands over them.  His legs were resting alongside Sherlock’s.  Perfect.  Every inch of John was touching every inch of Sherlock, exactly what he wanted.  John kissed Sherlock’s neck and cheek and nuzzled against his hair as he began to slide in and out, setting a steady rhythm. 

Sherlock wailed when John hit his prostate.  “Fuck yes, Sherlock, you feel so amazing.  I want to make you feel so good.”  Sherlock shuddered at John’s breath in his ear.  He started to feel tears pricking at the back of his eyes as he thought of the little stimulator he’d bought, thinking it was all he’d ever have, and how it was so much better to feel John in him and all around him. 

Sherlock moaned in a choked voice, “ _John_ ,” and after that he was unable to speak, making keening noises with every thrust of John’s hips.

John continued to kiss his neck and shoulders.  Sherlock felt his fingers curling into his hair, and it made him shiver again to feel nails scrape across his scalp.  “I love you, Sherlock.”  John’s other hand skimmed down Sherlock’s torso, curving around to grasp his cock.  He barely got off a few strokes before Sherlock was coming. 

He shuddered through his release, jerking a little when he became oversensitive.  John let go of his cock and withdrew his own so he wouldn’t overstimulate Sherlock’s prostate.  Breathlessly, Sherlock commanded, “John, take off your condom.  I want to feel you come on my back.”

“God, yes,” John moaned, and Sherlock looked over his shoulder to watch him finish himself off.  His spent cock twitched a little as John orgasmed, and he felt the spray on his back.  He closed his eyes, feeling completely gratified as John collapsed over him again, not seeming to care that he was now making a mess of his own chest. 

Sherlock purred in satisfaction, “I think we’re going to need a shower to clean up this time.”

“Mmm, works for me.  That was incredible, Sherlock.  Did I hurt you at all?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “No more than can be expected.  I enjoyed the burn.  It humbled me to the intimacy of what we were sharing.”  John gave him a tender kiss on his ear, then shifted them so that they were laying on their sides.

They stayed that way for a few quiet minutes as their breathing slowly returned to normal.  John kissed him on the shoulder, then rolled off the bed and stood up.  Sherlock whined in protest, and John held out his hand.  “Come on, love.  It’s time to introduce you to the joys of showering with someone.”  That gave Sherlock motivation to get up and follow him to the bathroom. 

Sherlock didn’t know what he enjoyed more, the feel of John’s soap-slick body sliding against him as they washed, or the way he toweled off Sherlock almost reverentially afterward.  John wrapped a fresh towel around him when he was done, and led him back to the bedroom.  Casting aside the pillow, they climbed into bed and John pulled him close, making noises of contentment.

“So,” John breathed after a few minutes, “…are there any other milestones coming up that we should celebrate?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then his lips curled into a soft smile.  “There’s January 29th.”  He looked over at John, expectantly.

John had a tiny frown line between his eyes as he thought, then it cleared.  His face crumpled a little as he fought to reign in his emotions.  “Of course.  The day we met,” he whispered.  He gazed at Sherlock, then leaned over and kissed him softly.  “Any ideas on how we should mark the occasion?”

Sherlock bit his lip, and tried not to look too hopeful when he responded, “Tell Mrs. Hudson we’ll only be needing the one bedroom.” 

John’s expression melted into adoration, and he smiled brightly.  “That sounds perfect, Sherlock.  And dinner at Angelo’s.  With a candle.”

Sherlock grinned in delight.  “Of course.  Though technically we should do Angelo’s on the 30th, since that was when…”  John cut him off with a kiss.


	12. Epilogue

**_2 months later_ **

John was perusing the newspaper, the rain outside making him feel drowsy and longing for a kip, when the door opened downstairs.  He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was examining something in his microscope.  John had a fleeting thought that he’d been in that exact position five months ago when Greg had called about the Williamson case.  So much has changed.

Sherlock looked up and groaned.  It was then that John heard the creak on the stairs.  Given the expression on Sherlock’s face, it could only mean…

“Mycroft,” Sherlock gritted out, as his brother walked in the door.  “What do you wan… _oh_.”  He was looking down at the plastic sleeve in Mycroft’s hand.  “The Irene Adler file.”

Without waiting for an invitation, Mycroft pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down.  “Closed forever.”  He set the sleeve on the table and tapped it with the tips of his fingers.  “There was a time I would have hesitated to tell you what happened to her.  I…believed that your feelings for her were of the tender variety.”

Sherlock smirked at him.  “Oh come on, Mycroft, just say it.  You were _wrong_.”

Mycroft’s expression turned sour.  “Quite.  Since your interest in her was solely professional…”

John stood up and interjected.  “Sherlock’s profession…not Irene’s.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.  “…you shouldn’t be upset by this news.”  Sherlock gave him a look that said to get on with it.  “She’s dead.  Captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi two months ago and beheaded.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful.  John cleared his throat.  “You sure it was her?  She’s pulled this trick before.”

Mycroft smiled blandly.  “We were quite thorough.  It would take Sherlock to fool me.  You weren’t on hand, were you?  Brother mine?”      

Sherlock brow wrinkled.  “I’ve never been to Kabul.  John has, but I’m sure not in quite a while.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.  “It was Karachi.” 

Sherlock shrugged and went back to looking in his microscope.  “If that’s everything, you can leave.” 

Mycroft paused, frowning slightly.  “You don’t want to look over the file?”

Sherlock adjusted one of the dials.  “Not interested.”  He looked up.  “Though I will have the camera phone.”  He held out his hand.

Mycroft gave him that look that indicated he had said something idiotic.  “This is not mine to give, Sherlock.  I’m already bending the rules by bringing the file.”  Sherlock held his hand out further.  “Why would you even want it?  It’s been completely stripped.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  “If it’s been stripped, why would you still need it?”

Mycroft gave him a look that said he would sigh deeply if sighing were something he deigned to do.  He stood up, fished the phone out of the plastic sleeve, and handed it to Sherlock.  John had to hide a smirk.  Mycroft couldn’t say no to Sherlock any more than he could.

Mycroft left, and John went over to the window to watch as Mycroft’s umbrella emerged from the front door out into the street.  He turned to Sherlock.  “Nice touch with getting the location wrong.  I guess, technically speaking, you didn’t lie.”

Sherlock leaned back from the microscope and smiled wickedly.  He tossed Irene’s phone in the air and caught it.  “I was wondering when we’d finally hear about it.  Glad to see our efforts were a success.”

John went back to his chair.  “And why did you want the phone?  Just to needle Mycroft?  Or was it _sentiment_?”  He smiled slyly at Sherlock.

Sherlock chuckled and tossed the phone up again.  “Just a souvenir of my favourite client.  The Woman.”  He stared down at the phone.  “ _The_ Woman.”

John huffed.  “Yes, well, my souvenir of her is that I’m still finding sand in odd places.”

Sherlock came over to his chair and draped himself over John’s lap.  “You don’t like it when I call her that, do you?  _The Woman_.”  John rolled his eyes and pursed his lips.  “Do you know what I call you?  The One.”  He gave John a fond smile.

Unable to speak for the lump in his throat, John circled his arms around Sherlock and pulled him in for a tender kiss.

*

_And there you are, Dear Reader.  That was quite a different ending that resulted from our one little change!  One missing tool, and instead of a wedge being driven between John and Sherlock, they have found happiness that will last them their whole life.  You’ll have to take my word for that, of course._

_I know what you’re wondering.  In this particular universe, how did the tool end up missing?  That’s a good question!  It was almost like someone plucked it right out of the toolbox and hid it out of sight.  Ha ha!  Oh goodness.  It’s just one of those things, I guess.  Take care, all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! I haven't written a fic this long in ages. 
> 
> If you're interested, you can find me on sherlock-nanowrimo.tumblr.com


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